Fractured Wisdom
by Mussimm
Summary: Orlais has always been a problem. How much of a problem is up for debate, but everyone can agree on one thing: never mess with Empress Celene. Why don't things ever go as planned?
1. Do Not Go Gentle

**Prologue**

**Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Etcetera**

–

The crowds roared, Denerim was alight. People cheered, threw flowers in the air, waved ribbons of the Theiren colours. The buildings still in ruins around them, they had covered the rubble in daisy chains and coloured lamps, tavern owners dispersing drinks freely, all mugs raised to the hero of the day. The Alienage had been opened and the elves cheered with the humans. The city was overcome by generosity and fraternity in its relief.

She stood above them on the palace steps, armour gleaming, hands raised in triumph. Their hero. The only person to sink her blade into the Archdemon and live to tell the tale. The face of Ferelden forever changed by her hand, as much a ruler as any king she had installed. She was a virtuous as Andraste, as glorious as Cormac, as fierce as the army of a dozen nations. At least for today.

Teyrna Cousland backed toward the palace doors, still facing the crowds, and they gave one final roar of approval as the guards pulled back the doors to allow her inside. Her smile was radiant, her face flushed in exaltation. Her armour weighed nothing, she was weightless, floating, carried along on the waves of glory.

Inside she bore no less admiration, the throne room was full of beaming faces. Her friends and comrades, the nobles and the guards, all united in one moment of perfect brotherhood in defence of their home. Alistair, glowing in his golden armour, caught her eye and gave her a boyish grin. A shot of lightning ran through her belly, jolting her back into pure, untainted love for just an instant.

With an unrestrained laugh she turned toward her room. There was a skip in her step all the way, until she managed to get the door open and slipped inside, giving one final wave to a guard wandering down the hall.

The door clicked shut behind her.

It had taken three months. Three months in which she felt she hadn't slept once. But it was done, the Blight defeated, Ferelden united again. There was no further quest or immediately apparent destination for her. She could do whatever she liked and no one had any monopoly on her time or her loyalty.

She was free.

All the air left her body in a rush. Her knees buckled. The ground came up to meet her and she was aware of stone striking her face, the pain in her cheekbone, the metallic taste of blood. She couldn't see, her hair had fallen over her eyes, her arms wouldn't respond to her commands.

A nation at her mercy. Decisions that could never be reversed. Zathrian, Bhelen, Logain, Gregoir. Men whose hearts she knew, who she had judged as a god. Orzammar's free will, the Teyrn's right to rule, Andraste's eternal rest. Her family, her love, precious things, all lost. Her own soul, surely damned.

The crowd outside hailing her as a hero.

A sword hilt was sticking painfully into her side, she had cracked her temple, she needed to stand. She couldn't breathe. The angle her shoulder sat at was wrong, it compressed her ribcage, she shouldn't hold it like that.

The door opened. She couldn't see, but she heard a yell, a call for help. Arms, small and lithe, picked her up. The voices came as waves in familiar notes, but her mind wouldn't process the words, or who spoke them. Concern, maybe a note of panic, that she could make out. A massive form in her peripheral vision. Blond hair, red, swayed and blurred together.

"Get me out of here." The words were forced out on a waning breath, the last of her strength.

There was no hesitation. She was moving, floating above the ground in a strong grip. A sudden warmth, a cloak obscuring her face and armour. There was a note of urgency in her rescuers as they raced her out the servants entrance, through the kitchen, hasty apologies and blatant lies to any bystanders.

Precious things, all lost.

She couldn't breathe.

The crowd outside parted for the giant, all still laughing and singing. Still praising their hollow hero. Her saviour was jostled, the hold around her turning possessive and protective. Her entourage ploughed a path forward, muttering urgently between each other, a hand adjusting the cloak over her face until she couldn't see at all. Their progress was slow. She couldn't feel her fingers or toes. A hand slipped into hers, squeezing her numb extremity.

Armour slammed against her ribs with every halting step, her rerebrace cut off the circulation to her left arm. She needed to move, to fix it, to speak, to breathe, to scream at the crowd to stop.

She felt it when they broke through the last of the crowd. They were running, then.

Sophia Dryden had turned to blood magic to depose a tyrant, it had seemed so important at the time. He was a monster, ruling with fear. Now the empire had moved on. But her house, and the Grey Wardens, stood disgraced by her. Sophia Dryden, who she herself had condemned not a month ago. Sophia Dryden, whose armour was now worn by the Hero of Ferelden. Different judges. Different verdicts. Different results. The same crime.

A maleficar carried the results of her foolishness, in nine months it would be a child. In twenty years, who knew? A benefactor or a tyrant. An abandoned bastard child to an abandoned bastard father.

All lost.

Bile rose in her throat, her stomach churned, but her chest had no strength to heave. The cloak fell from her face, she saw the dusty, crumbling streets of Denerim fly past.

The last thing she remembered was being bundled onto a horse, the flash of green trees in her vision, before the black claimed her.

All lost.


	2. Civil Blood Makes Civil Hands

**Chapter 1**

**Where Civil Blood Makes Civil Hands A Pink Colour or Something**

–

Another bloody treaty. The Grey Warden treaties had held up for six hundred years, why was it that Orzammar couldn't keep quiet for six months? And the Dalish. Oh, the Dalish. If that bubble-headed elf sent one more request to the palace, someone was getting strung up by their belly button.

Alistair groaned, sinking again into the mound of paperwork. There was no use complaining about it, for the first few years after his coronation Eamon had been endlessly patient, but now any whining was met with stares that would frighten a basilisk. Maybe it would be easier just to conquer Orzammar. He shook his head, not an option. Wynne would come back from the dead to lecture him until his ears fell off.

All this had to be done, and now he was regretting falling behind so far. He had maybe forty eight hours if he completely ignored the court, then he was going on an incredibly rare sabbatical. Well, less a sabbatical and more an exercise in torture.

As many pointless treaties, requests for aid, invitations to events, petitions to support something or the other and anything else his countrymen could dream up he had on his desk, there was one giant, overshadowing concern that trumped all of them.

It had been more than five years since Cailan had last considered the prospect of lasting peace with Orlais. The cloud that hung over him, in every stinging accusation of Loghain's, had to be dealt with.

On the bright side, it meant he was allowed to leave Denerim's court. On the less-than-bright side, it meant going to a foreign court. It had been hard enough to learn all the courtesies of the land he'd grown up in, and the Orlesians were at least as unfamiliar as the Qunari to him. The insanely wealthy empire made him look like the mayor of a country village by comparison, and the very last thing he needed was to present himself as the hick king of a country that smelled like wet dogs. And garbage.

Orlais had grown, Empress Celene having all her late husband's passion of conquest, it hadn't been a week since he'd heard another northern nation had fallen, part of the Anderfels. If they were picking a fight with the Grey Wardens, things were getting extremely real, and getting an invitation to her court while the bulk of her armies were away was the best opportunity he could ask for. It still wasn't ideal. While the Fereldan farms were producing, their armies idle, their trade constant, in the grand scheme of things they were a small, poor country. Asking a superpower like Orlais to please not stomp them into a fine paste was not something Alistair was looking forward to.

A dash of blond hair flickered in the king's peripheral vision. He hadn't heard the door open. He didn't look up from his work.

"Evening, Zevran."

"Good evening, your majesty." The elf bowed with a flourish, unwilling to give up his theatrics for any occasion.

"Do you have news for me?"

"None of any importance. Teyrna Mac Tir's dissidence has been quelled, her estates show no signs of treason or conspiracy."

"Dare I ask the nature of this quelling?" He didn't like to question Zevran, it was probably the best decision he'd ever made, hiring him as spymaster, but it never did to forget that he started life as an assassin.

He shrugged. "The elder of one of the villages in her Terynir was apparently a bad influence. He has tragically met his end in a hunting accident."

Well, he could live with that if it avoided civil war. Anora had to stop getting herself into this kind of trouble, she'd been a thorn in his side since the day he'd let her out of the prison, and he had to wonder if he shouldn't have just left her there.

"I'm glad you're back, actually. I need some help."

"You? No! How can that be?" Zevran's roguish grin made Alistair chuckle.

"Alright, don't rub it in. You know I'm heading to Orlais in a couple of days, and no one around here can give me a straight answer about the manners of their court."

"That's because they don't know."

"Ah." Alistair couldn't really come up with anything witty and brilliant to say to that. "What do you mean?"

"The last time Ferelden had any interaction with Orlais, it was to drive them out. There probably isn't a living soul in this country who has _been_ to their court, much less has an intense familiarity with it. I'm afraid they're avoiding your questions to belie their own ignorance. What makes you think I know the ways of nobles? I am not from Orlais."

Usually Alistair would have laughed, but the amount of work he had to do in the next two days had dampened his spirits somewhat. "If your stories are anything to go by, you've known the ways of more than one of their noblewomen."

Zevran laughed uproariously. "That is true, my friend. You are more astute than you are given credit for."

"Good to know."

"Val Royeaux... what is there to say?" The elf leaned back on the king's desk, looking contemplative. "They like pretty things. Fashions change every season and to be seen out of fashion is a great humiliation. I would definitely stay to wearing your armour. It's considered very rude to talk of anything military during social occasions, unless it is to congratulate a general or enquire after a deployed relative, any talk of battles or land taken is crass."

"So... look like a soldier but don't talk about war?"

"In essence, yes. And treat every woman as though she were the Empress herself. Women are seen more as decorations than anything else, and must be treated with total indulgence. They are truly irritating creatures."

Alistair scoffed, imagining a woman like Wynne or Morrigan being treated like a wilting flower. They'd probably turn someone into a person-shaped icicle. "Can you imagine...?"

"Oh, I tried it once or twice on Fereldan women, including our fearless leader. She took out one of my teeth."

"I thought I was your fearless leader." The king mocked hurt, instantly steering the subject away from his former lover. No time for those thoughts.

"That you are. But truly, all I can tell you is that Empress Celene has a broad reputation. If any of it is true, she will bedazzle you with women and drink and all the arts and cultures of Orlais, wait until you trust her and then demand you swear fealty. She will make it seem like a good idea, I can guarantee you that."

"Keeping my wits about me has never been a strong point, but I'm grateful for the warning."

"No one gets to be the head of an empire like Orlais without being cunning."

Alistair nodded, processing all this advice. "I'd like you to ride ahead, find out what's happening on the northern border. Any information on what's going on at the battlefields might help me."

"Of course, your highness. I shall ride out tonight."

The king waved a hand, giving him permission to leave, and he was gone in an instant, a gentle rustling of papers the only indication he had ever been there.

A few weeks of being plied with wine and women, he could live through that. Or perhaps Celene would try a different tactic when she figured out he was a sleepy drunk and no good with women. Having someone from Antiva on his side was a surprising advantage, in more ways than one. The Wardens believed that decadence existed only to corrupt, which he had believed wholeheartedly, but after a time as king he'd come to realise that it had its uses. Specifically to distract and intimidate visiting dignitaries. And as a native of Antiva, one of the most decadent cities in the known world, Zevran was an invaluable asset.

Alistair knew he was going to have to play this by ear, and that was fine by him, he had too much to do without trying to make additional preparations. The news that he would be in his armour was frankly the best thing he'd heard all week. The non-military clothing he owned made him feel like an unthinkable ponce. And it itched.

The king sighed and stared down at his desk.

Right, Orzammar treaty, draft #389.

–

It was hot.

Eight days travelling, aggressive briefings on tradition and language, and almost certainly a couple of saddle sores, and the one thing that had slipped Alistair's mind was the one thing that had been an almost constant complaint from Zevran over the last five years. Ferelden was an ice field compared to other countries.

It was beautiful, he had to admit that. Even the forests outside the city were beautiful, bathed in the golden morning light. The trees were distinctly unfamiliar, wispy and almost ethereal, with white and pink blossoms that floated through the air on the gentlest breeze. Above the treeline he could see the imposing city, and everything he had been told was true. Val Royeaux was beautiful beyond imagining, the grand palace stretching up toward the sky, dominating the skyline. And it smelled nothing like wet dogs.

The main promenade led straight to the palace, through the market district which overwhelmed the tired party with the smell of tea and spices. Music played, many of the citizens on the streets engaging in idle pursuits such as dancing or drawing. There was the tolling of a bell, and messengers raced ahead of them, no doubt relaying the message that the royal party had entered the city, allowing Celene to prepare.

He doubted very strongly that it would ever feel normal to have anyone rush ahead of him to announce his presence. Certainly being on his way to a personal meeting with Celene I of Orlais was surreal enough for him. It felt almost clandestine.

So exhausted from his days on horseback, the city seemed to pass as a blur of foreign sounds and smells. There was some papery floral scent that seemed to linger in the air so densely that no source was apparent. Unintelligible chatter slid past him, his knowledge of the language so poor that he could catch barely any of the words. Soon the steps of the palace were in sight, several glistening figures stood waiting.

Empress Celene was attended by a half dozen servants, not counting her guards and attending ladies. Enormous papers fans protecting her from the sun's glare, flowers bore by her side to block out any unfortunate scents she might catch wind of, a girl fussing with the hem of her voluminous dress. She looked like an outlandishly sized flower, almost lost in the bolts of pale green silk. The empress was an attractive woman with a sharply curved nose and eyebrows that had been plucked into a severe arch, giving her face a sense of length. Her hair, ears and neck were draped with pearls of such enormous size that he wondered she didn't bow under the weight.

Alistair dismounted his horse, hearing the clatter of armour as his knights followed suit. Celene extended her hand graciously, the most sincere smile gracing her face, and he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

"Empress Celene, it's a pleasure to meet you in person."

"And you, King Alistair. How did you find the journey?"

"Long." The word sprung from his lips before he could stop it. Not very polite, he was supposed to insist he floated here on a golden cloud, spurred on by thoughts of her beauty. "But worth every minute."

"Of course, I have heard the ride from Denerim is unpleasant. I have made the journey only once myself, and truly appreciate your efforts to travel so far to see me."

Another thing Alistair strongly doubted was that he would ever achieve that kind of grace or diplomacy.

"It was no effort, Empress, compared to the benefit." That sounded vaguely like something Eamon would say, and he was given a demure smile for his efforts.

"You are too kind, Alistair. Ever since the death of King Cailan I have been anxious to resume talks of peace. But I talk when you must be tired. My lady Ameline will show you to your rooms, and your horses will be stabled. I will look forward to your presence to dine with me at noon."

They exchanged final pleasantries and then she was gone in a flurry of green silk and fussing servants. The Ferelden entourage seemed to disappear into thin air as soon as they entered the palace and he was taken to a state room which seemed to be at least a mile's walk from the palace entrance, and up three flights of stairs.

Ameline, the young, flustered lady-in-waiting who attended him, apologised profusely the entire walk. She assured him that the view from his assigned room was incomparable, a fact he could not have cared less about, and the walk would not need to be repeated often. The palace was amazing, silk runners along every hallway, columns and arches in the finest marble, golden urns holding arboretums of flowers, and grandly painted portraits of the royal family.

When they finally reached the rooms, he was unsurprised to see they were grander than his own in the Denerim palace. Ameline's nervous chatter followed him all the way into the room, where she practically molested him to help him off with his armour, which he was too tired to begrudge her. He did, however, have to be quite firm in insisting he needed no help bathing or dressing, a duty he wouldn't even allow his own manservant, much less an agitated serving girl he'd never seen before.

She insisted fiercely that if he had the slightest fancy, he was to call on her to fulfil it. It was only with his most earnest assurance that Alistair managed to get the door closed behind her and let out a sigh. Thank the Maker the bath had already been drawn for him, he probably smelled like horses and Denerim and eight days of bathing in ice cold streams, when he even had the chance to do that much. Unpleasant even by his standards, and he'd once spent three days covered in Darkspawn blood when the closest thing to water he had on hand was lava.

Alistair sunk into the tub, groaning in relief. He wasn't sure if he fell asleep or passed out, but when his eyes opened again the water was cool, and he scrubbed off quickly, dressed in fresh clothes and collapsed onto the bed, slipping in and out of fitful sleep. The angle of the sun seemed to change every time he opened his eyes, although he felt he only slept a few seconds at a time.

The room was cast in shade when there came a knock at the door. Alistair gave a grumble of consent and Ameline returned. He tried to blink away the thick fog of sleep, it was time to meet with Celene again. He shook his head, managing to clear some of the tiredness, and sat back, staring at the girl who was fussing at his armour.

It may have been the long ride or maybe he had simply been too bedazzled by Celene to notice her when they were first introduced, but her appearance was shocking. She was tall, with the naturally athletic figure of a sportsman or soldier, nothing like the delicate ladies he had expected. Her hair was cropped above her shoulders, unnaturally dark, and when she looked at him it was through massive grey eyes. Something about her jawline, or was it her nose? She was a truly impressive duplicate of the Hero of Ferelden, the last woman, the only woman, he had loved.

"Is something wrong, sire?"

Alistair realised too late that he was staring. He shook his head. "No, sorry. You just look like someone I used to know."

"Oh." Ameline blushed and let the hair fall in front of her face as she bent to retrieve his cuirass. "Someone you liked, I hope."

"Yes." He couldn't help the curl of his lips. She wasn't actually supposed to say that. "Except I hear she took out one of my spymaster's teeth."

"I assure you, sire, your spymaster's teeth are safe with me." She smiled under her hair as she helped fit his armour. He grinned in return, finally waking up. The best thing about having an inappropriate servant was that she wouldn't spread rumours about an inappropriate king. Her fingers were fast and sure, as if she'd done this a thousand times, which seemed oddly disparate with her appearance. Ladies who dressed in blue silk and wore flowers in their hair didn't have experience with armour. "Did you sleep well, sire?"

He wanted to tell her to call him Alistair, but he was supposed to be making himself seem powerful, so he refrained. "There's no such thing as a good sleep after riding for more than a week. I'm not late to meet the Empress, am I?"

"No, sire. I expected that you would be tired, so I allowed additional time for you to awaken. I hope that's not too forward of me."

"No. Thank you." Those large eyes were very pretty. Maybe they weren't, maybe the ones his memory superimposed were the truly pretty ones. Certainly they were nothing alike in anything but looks. Demure would hardly be a word he could use to describe his lover, with her barely restrained smart mouth and heavy handed manner. Maybe a little bit of sweetness was shared between the two, polite when called on, thoughtful to others' well-being. Gentle with him.

Alistair closed his eyes momentarily, internally laughing at himself. Projecting his abandonment issues on a serving girl, that was just like him. At least after all these years he was just as smooth as the day he had joined the Wardens.

He had to get his head in the game.

As soon as the last buckle was done, Ameline let him walk ahead of her, although he had no idea about where he was expected to go she guided him with gentle whispers. The palace didn't seem quite so enormous now that he was fully awake. Less like a trek up a marble mountain and more like a stroll through an artful museum or library. Celene had decided they would be dining privately. Relatively. The full court wasn't in attendance, anyway, and the table seemed extremely sparse, with only ten or so in attendance and at least one empty seat between each person.

"Ameline," he whispered to her while he was being announced. "Why are there so many empty chairs?"

"Each lord is attended to his right by his champion general. The places are still set while they're away at war to show their absence," she murmured, her face completely impassive as though she were saying nothing at all.

"Empress Celene." Alistair again took her hand to kiss and she smiled at him beatifically, rising to her feet. That smile seemed like her main form of communication. He could appreciate that, it was non-committal and inoffensive, allowing him to set the tone of conversation.

He was seated to her left, his eyes skirting to the plate to the right. A single fig sat in the middle of the plate.

"The High General loves figs, will not eat a single meal without finishing on a fig."

He must have been staring. It was a strange tradition, but he could see its purpose. Most of the empty seats around the table had a token before them, a piece of fruit, a ribbon, something their occupants would not dine without. They were as much at the table as if they'd been there in person.

"Of course," he murmured absent-mindedly, trying to get a feel for the people who had just conquered the northern lands. Some of the objects were completely unrecognisable, some borderline barbaric. One place, next to a woman draped in furs and beads over her silk dress, had the butter knife replaced with a vicious bowie knife which looked like it had seen more than one battle.

"You will forgive me, Alistair." Celene purred. "I was hoping to begin peace talks as soon as possible, but we have received word that our generals will march to Val Royeaux within the day, and I am sure the High General would be invaluable to our discussion."

"The battle..." Alistair clamped his mouth shut, remembering Zevran's advice. No war talks. "... did not see you lose anyone close to you, I hope?"

The conversation flowed easily and amicably, and he was grateful for the opportunity to observe this fraction of the court before being confronted with its entirety. He felt surprisingly comfortable, as he wasn't the only foreigner. It was clear from several of the nobles that the Orlesian court was made up of many countries. While they held to each others' fashions, there were two at the table that didn't seem to speak a word of the native language, and the barbarian princess was not considered an oddity in the least. He guessed that there were representatives from each of the empire's countries present. The most awkward thing to deal with was the food, which more closely resembled a work of art than a meal, and felt disrespectful to take apart.

Good food, though.

He had to disagree with Zevran's initial assessment, particularly in regard to women. Though they were certainly treated with a deference that bordered on patronising, they were more than decorations. Many of the introductions smacked of euphemism. What exactly was a 'Companion to Val Royeaux'? A 'patron of the uncommon arts'? These were spies and saboteurs, of that he had no doubt. Every position was one won on cunning and outmanoeuvring the competition and he didn't think for a second to take anyone in the room lightly, though he did wonder how much more insidious each would be with their champion beside them.

He managed a few words of conversation with the Duke of Montfort, who seemed like a pleasant enough man, though he kept casting looks at his general's empty seat, through worry for the soldier's safety or his own it was not clear. Keeping up the royal veneer that Eamon had hammered into him over the last five years was difficult, the room had an atmosphere of a pleasant lunch between friends, and it was easy to forget that he was deep in enemy territory. But he was. Celene's words were light and her smile friendly, and her armies probably already briefed to cross the Frostback Mountains and capture Denerim.

This thick veil of conviviality was intended to relax him before negotiations began.

After a long, languorous lunch Celene invited him to walk in the gardens, a proposition that surprised him. There were no gardens of any note at the Denerim palace, but he had heard that some nobles kept pruned landscapes for leisure, like the chantry kept for meditation. It was more comfortable, he admitted, when Bann Teagan and several knights from his retinue joined him, along with Celene's ladies-in-waiting.

The gardens were striking, he decided, and he wished castle Denerim had larger grounds to accommodate such a triviality. That same papery fragrance from town followed them, Celene's swishing silk gown carrying the scent in its folds. The crowning glory was the pavilion on a man made lake, which Celene informed him was used to host open air events during the summer months and a favoured area for the servants at all other times.

Despite the grandeur of the gardens, Alistair had never been more bored in his entire life. Celene spoke little and concisely, and he wondered if she hated this part of proceedings as much as he did. Maybe it was the kingly thing to take mental notes about the construction of the pavilion or the origin of various flowering shrubs, but the information seemed to just drift straight through him until such a time as it was polite to comment, and then he found himself a little tongue tied, trying to come up with something useful.

"I must apologise, Alistair."

The words didn't register for a moment, tuned out like any other conversation. After a slight pause he snapped awake. "Pardon?"

"I forget myself, Ferelden is a place of such simple pleasures compared to Orlais, you must consider me frivolous speaking of such things." There was a backhanded compliment in there, somewhere. He wasn't sure if she was entirely sincere or insinuating that he was being a rude, backwater ingrate.

"No! No, I should apologise, Empress, the road has left me tired and I am being impolite."

"Please, call me Celene."

"Celene." Alistair tested out the name, feeling they'd reached peace between them. Sure, this wasn't a political minefield. He was about to say something else when she saved him.

"Will you sit with me, Alistair?"

"Of course."

They say on one of the pavilion benches, overlooking the lake. A flock of swans sailed past, magnificent in their regalia. All Alistair could think was how much Shale would hate this place, and he barely stifled a laugh at the thought. He could almost picture the look on Celene's face if there was a squawk and her swans were replaced by red stains and a studiously innocent golem.

"Is Ameline suiting your needs? I know that in Denerim you would have a manservant, but I would not wish to deprive you of one of my best. Her father is a trusted ally."

"Her father?"

"Yes, she is the sixth daughter of Lord Gardieu of Val Chevin. But I would not wish for you to keep her on if you would be more comfortable with one of the serving boys."

They had nobles serving the royalty? Alistair's eyebrow rose almost without his consent. Orlais was so large a land that he knew nobles were numerous beyond imagination, but he didn't think they were so throwaway as to act as servants.

Her question was skilfully worded, it made her seem understanding, but he had no doubt that dismissing Ameline would be considered an insult to Val Chevin.

"She's very... pleasant," he said diplomatically. "I wouldn't give up her company for the best manservant in Orlais. In fact I may have to steal her back to Denerim when I leave."

The right answer, if Celene's thoughts was anywhere near as smug as her expression. "I am very proud of my ladies, so many come to me from small provinces with no knowledge of the court."

"I can see why." So this was her tactic, it was an almost universal practise, taking the children of country lords to court as apprentices. She was finding common ground. "Most of my knights are from the smaller provinces and it's a pleasure to watch them grow into the city."

Especially those who leave peaceably, he thought about adding. The crown was easier than the Grey Wardens in that way. No conscription. He'd seen one noble taken from her home against her will, that was enough.

"Then you must know we expect great things from Ameline, once she has completed her time with me here. Although she has many older sisters, she is a jewel among them, I am sure you have noticed."

"I have." A flawed jewel. He had seen one polished and complete.

Celene's next statement was lost to him as he noticed a flash of brown leather across the courtyard. A figure lurked in the shadows. The empress looked up at him expectantly and he hoped she had not said anything of enormous importance. Surely before he was king people just knocked on the door when they wanted to see him. That was how it had been, hadn't it?

"I'm sorry, Celene, would you excuse me? I believe the last member of my party has arrived."

Alistair waited for her consent before stealing across the garden to where his spymaster waiting for him. The man looked harried, his hair plastered against his face with sweat and his breathing heavy from exertion.

"Your majesty," Zevran greeted with an exhausted bow.

"Why are you hiding in the trees? Celene has a sharp tongue but she doesn't bite." Why couldn't he have a normal spymaster? Did such a thing exist?

"I have never seen the woman in person before, I see that the rumours of her beauty were not exaggerated."

Alistair glanced over his shoulder. Yes, he supposed she was beautiful, if he looked at it objectively. "Are we really hiding in the trees to gossip about a woman? Is that what's going on here?"

"No, sire. I collected some information that you may want to hear privately, and this was the most convenient location. Unless you'd like to swim in the lake, which certainly would be more private, if less dignified."

"What are the armies doing?"

"Nothing of importance," Zevran shrugged. "Pulling out of the Anderfels as expected. I thought you may want to know that I ran into an old friend."

"An old friend?" Alistair feigned ignorance, but his stomach was already making its way down to his shoes. There was only one person Zevran would pull him aside to announce.

"The Hero of Ferelden, Teyrna of Highever. Warden to the dwarves, Kadara Astaarit to the Qunari. 'It' to Shale. Although I believe you most often referred to her as 'Oh, Maker, yes!'" The elf gave him a wry grin, enjoying this far too much.

"Do we have to take this to classless territory, Zevran?"

"Sadly, my friend, it was you who took her there, not I. I thought you might want to know that she has made a new name for herself."

Alistair scoffed. "How many does she need? What does that Qunari one mean, again? The rise of death? And don't joke around, I still haven't forgiven you for smuggling her out of the city after the Hero celebrations."

"I believe idiomatically the Qunari are simply calling her a reaver. But I think you will find this new title quite interesting." Zevran was stalling, something he never did unless he had extremely bad news. Alistair could only guess what would cause such hesitation. The Maker's Second Bride. Perhaps she was now going by Arishok and had taken up with the Chasind.

"Surprise me."

Zevran took a deep breath and pursed his lips. Oh, this was bad. This was very, very bad.

"High General Cousland of Orlais."

Alistair froze, unsure that he had heard that correctly. Red spots exploded before his eyes. High General Cousland of Orlais. Empress Celene's right hand. Head of the army that had just flattened half the Grey Wardens in Thedas, the army that had occupied and enslaved Ferelden for eighty years. Fury burst within him. He came here to make peace, and if he failed, it would be her that marched on their homeland, burned their cities to the ground.

He barely had time for the anger to hit him before the gardens filled with the sound of clanging bells.

"The vanguard is here!" A voice shouted from across the way. "The generals have entered Val Royeaux!"


	3. I Came, I Saw

**Chapter 2**

**I Came, I Saw, Things Progressed Accordingly**

–

It was a parade like Alistair had never seen before. The generals and champion generals of Orlais were an army in and of themselves, from the farthest flung corners of Thedas. Mages floated by in flowing golden robes. Barbarians brandished spears, draped in furs ripped from the backs of their prey. Golden chevaliers moved in formation, displaying the crests of their houses proudly on their shields. Hounds, large like the Mabari and sleeker like wild wolves, barely contained by their master, moved throughout the generals. It was all the more impressive for being completely impromptu.

"Lord General Millier of Mont-de-Grace! Champion General Kashim of Val Foret!" An announcer rattled off the names of the returned at incredible pace.

People lined the streets, throwing papery white flowers in such volumes that it seemed to be raining petals. Musicians and dancers broke from the crowds to join the generals, praising them as though they had just floated down from heaven on a moonbeam.

"High Sorceress Cachet, High Sorceress Isabeau, High Sorcerer Guillame!"

Guillame, at the call of his name, conjured a ball of fire which he threw above the crowd. It exploded into the form of a dragon that swept along the streets, roaring and snapping at the people bellow, causing another great cheers from the gathered crowds. His accompanying sorceresses rolled their eyes at him and the young mage laughed.

"Champion Archer General Lilinette of Arlesans!"

Everything washed over Alistair. This was a spectacle he'd never witness again, and an impressive one, but he couldn't, wouldn't, distract himself for a moment in his search for the figure he was looking for. She was here, entering the city, ready to receive her praise for another Orlesian victory. Five years missing from Ferelden, she'd been here, helping their greatest enemy to grow in strength and size, expand to the point where Denerim stood no chance against them.

"Champion Cavalry General Aimes of Arlesans! Champion General Lamar of Jader! Lord General Julius of Lydes!"

It made sense. The sudden need for conquest, the expansion of territories. Anyone who could take an army of two hundred green men and defeat a Blight that already had a stronghold in the capital could do almost anything. She was a military genius not seen since Andraste. Orlais would have plied her with anything she wanted, they could give it to her. And then... taking lands to the north and east was just the logical step. If he had an army like this and a general like her, he might have done the same.

The crowds seemed to ripple with anticipation, he could see where the excitement was greatest, and knew she was coming.

"Lord General Gautier of Val Chevin, and honour guard! Champion Hound Master Ouberman of Halamshiral!

The golden procession parted, chevaliers and hounds moving past them, to a destination he couldn't tell or guess.

She was there.

Glorious and bloody, she was there.

The crowds roar seemed to dull, drowned out by the blood rushing in his veins. Like Andraste herself, she shone in the sun. Her armour glowed an unnatural white, her rich chocolate hair swung down to the small of her back in barbaric braids. She brandished her helm, crested with the royal colours, against her hip, her other arm all but invisible under the massive fur and dragonskin cloak.

She was a reaver queen, a dragon in human form, a figure that would not be ignored, on the battlefield or here. Massive dark eyes didn't even notice the crowd, didn't stray an inch from Celene. She was stonefaced, no smile of victory or acknowledgement of the people.

And she was so painfully, desperately frail. Like she hadn't eaten in weeks, her face was gaunt, her posture loose. Her armour was so closely fitted, in a way it couldn't have been a few years ago even if she had the luxuries of time and money. It snapped so tightly to her waist, banded around her ribcage, he could see that she was no more then bone and muscle underneath.

"Champion of Val Royeaux, Chevalier of The Order of Orlais' Glory, High General of the Vanguard, Champion General Cousland of Orlais!"

The explosion of noise snapped Alistair from his shock, it was deafening.

The general, to her credit, did not even flinch. She ascended the stairs and knelt in supplication to the Empress, taking her hand and kissing the ring that graced her index finger. She didn't stand, instead resting her forehead against Celene's hand.

"Your imperial majesty," she whispered.

"Arise, General Cousland, you've done your country proud today."

_Your country._ The words stung Alistair in a way they shouldn't have. This wasn't her country, Ferelden was her country.

She knelt for another beat, as if she was too tired to stand, then rose to her feet. "I will sleep soundly in that knowledge."

Alistair baulked. The words were so cold, so calculated. It was like when she had lost her rosy cheeks, her soft curves, her warm smile, so had all the laughter and light been sucked out of her. This wasn't the woman he loved, this was a parody of her.

"You know King Alistair." Celene gestured to him.

The general's eyes snapped to him, as if she had no idea he was standing just a foot away from her the entire time. He read genuine surprise in her eyes, which she quickly covered and offered him a bow. "Your majesty."

"General Cousland," he returned, the words sticking in his mouth so that he had to spit them out. _Pup_. _Lovely. Queen Theirin. _No. Clearly not any of those things.

"Please, general, don't let us keep you standing on ceremony. You've been away from home so long, you must be tired."

_Home_.

"I am. Thank you, your majesty."

A joyous bark sounded and Alistair didn't have time to locate it before he was nearly knocked off his feet. A Mabari happily licked at his face as he laughed, all heartbreak forgotten momentarily.

"Buttercup!" he greeted. The hound barked happily, jumping down off him to spin in delirious circles and roll on his back. Alistair knelt and scratched his belly, earning himself another delighted bark.

"Buttercup." This time the voice was ice cold. The terrifying high general looked down at her dog, causing the beast to whine. "Keep ranks. That's the king of Ferelden you're trying to topple."

The dog slunk off to the side, being met halfway by a giant man with a young face and a broad mouth that looked like it was used to smiling. He looked more bashful than anything as Buttercup rejoined the rest of the hounds. Alistair recognised him as Champion Hound Master Ouberman of Halamshiral, he had been introduced just minutes before.

"I'm so sorry, General Cousland, King Alistair."

He opened his mouth to insist that it was fine, but he was cut off.

"Is it so much to ask that you keep my dog from molesting foreign dignitaries, Cedric?"

Cedric, much more practical than that long title. Cedric looked like the kind of man Alistair could get along with, given half a chance.

"I'm sorry, General Cousland, it won't happen again." He bowed deeply and backed away, but Alistair could hear him as he made it back to the pack, hissing to Buttercup. "Are you trying to get me killed? Or just humiliated in front of all Orlais?"

Buttercup gave a conversational groan.

"Don't look at me like that, I don't care if you know him."

The king felt a curious numbness washing over him. It was too much. From being blissfully oblivious to having his lover walk back into his life in the space of half an hour, and then seeing his once wry, warm, sexy Pup was now a shell of her former self, dressing down her own hound in public. A traitor. Maybe not in any sense he could convict her of, she was a Grey Warden, unbound by national borders, but a traitor nonetheless.

A hand on his shoulder seemed to be holding him up, and he glanced back at Zevran, who gave him a bemused and sympathetic smile. She was gone after a final bow, meeting his eyes for just a split second. There was nothing there, grey like the ocean was now grey like stone.

The generals were announced and drifted away, one by one, the noise of the people was just waves against his ears, the names blurred together and so did the faces. Just a stream of golden armour and mousey brown hair, occasionally punctuated by bright red locks or green sashes, blue coronets and white plumes.

_Your country. Home_. Impossible.

She'd given up everything for Ferelden. Everything. Any home she ever knew, any normal life she could have lived. He didn't want to be vain enough to add himself to that list, but looking back on the sacrifices he'd made for Ferelden, she was definitely at the top of his list. Why would she abandon them to the wind now? Either one of them would have gladly given their life, had Morrigan not intervened.

A hundred nights camped on the damp ground, monsters at their backs, Loghain on their heels. Lava and snow. She'd managed to get frostbite in two of her toes in the Frostback Mountains, Wynne had only just prevented amputation. Together they'd stood on every parliament floor in Ferelden, mediated disputes between werewolves, mages. She'd tamed the entire templar army, just like she'd tamed him. Why was she throwing that away? What could Orlais offer her, aside from an extremely pretty dragonskin cloak?

Soon the fuss melted away and Zevran's hand squeezed his shoulder, like a signal that the time for contemplation was over.

"I understand that General Cousland was instrumental in your ascension to the throne, Alistair," Celene said. "I am glad to see you reunited."

Alistair searched desperately for words, but his tongue was too dry. He felt like his brain was shutting down, the sunlight was too bright, the crowd was too loud, his armour was too heavy.

"Yes," he managed to choke out.

"I hope you don't begrudge us using her services, as a Grey Warden she has no native home if my memory serves."

"No, no home."

"Ameline!" Celene snapped. "Can you not see that King Alistair is feeling unwell?"

Soft hands encased his own and Alistair felt himself pulled away, led back the thousand steps to his room, barely seeing the girl who led him save for her swaying chocolate hair. Just like his Pup when she was younger, when she still had light in her eyes, when she'd give him a mischievous grin and pull him close. Maker, his Pup was gone, as good as dead, only her body still walked and talked, worked against him. Grey eyes, full of concern, caught his as she lowered him down onto the bed. Gentle.

He couldn't help but give Ameline's fingers a soft squeeze as she let him go.

"Your majesty, please let me remove some of your armour, it is too heavy for you." The pleading note in her voice brought him back to reality a little. He must have looked awful if she was that worried. He nodded, swallowing thickly, and sat up to allow her access to the straps.

Ameline's fast fingers worked at his armour, freeing him from his pauldrons, vambraces and rerebraces quickly, allowing him to breathe a little better. She pressed a wet cloth against his forehead.

"It must be the heat," she muttered. "I've heard Ferelden is very cold."

"It is. Smells like wet dogs." That earned him a smile, and her colour improved a couple of shades. "General Cousland. How long has she been here?"

"Nearly four years, sire, since the start of the Nevarra campaign," she said. "She has mentioned plans to move on, but we have hopes she will stay. Cedric has been working on her since the day she walked into Val Royeaux, and I think he's made some headway. But listen to me, gossiping about the High General, please forgive me - "

"Cedric? The houndmaster? What kind of headway are we talking about, here?"

She talked as she worked, dabbing the cloth at his neck and shoulders, and his body temperature mercifully fell with each touch. Her ministrations were professional, her attentions purely therapeutic, but he felt like it wasn't the cold water that had the room slowly returning to its normal stability.

"Oh, General Cousland has turned many heads at court, but she's entirely devoted to her work. They say Fereldans are as loyal as hounds, and no one is more loyal or constant than Cedric. I think he must remind her of home. The soldiers say she is fierce, but I think she looks sad, she must miss her family."

She has no family. Well, that wasn't entirely true, she had a brother, but their paths separated many years ago. "The same Cedric she just tore apart in front of half the army? Actually, that does sound a lot like her brand of affection."

"I cannot speak on the nature of her affections, sire, for I do not know the woman. But if the courtiers are to be believed, he has some reason to hope she will extend her stay in Val Royeaux."

"That's..." What was that? Good? Bad? He had no idea. An Orlesian general with and Orlesian lover. Not really anything out of the ordinary, if she was anyone else in Thedas. Not something that would hurt if it was anyone else. He wasn't even sure if he wanted it to hurt. Traitors deserved no tears.

"Your colour is looking better, sire, how do you feel? Should I send for the physician?"

"No. No, you were right, it must have been the heat." He lay back against the bed, letting his eyes drift closed under Ameline's ministrations, visions of dark hair, dark eyes and pale skin swimming behind his eyelids. He needed to calm down, and hear no more about that confounding, infernal woman. "Would you tell me about your family, Ameline?"

"My family, sire?"

"Yes, Celene tells me that your father is the lord of Val Chevin. If you don't want to..."

"No, I am happy to tell you, sire, I have just... never been asked such a question. There isn't much to tell, however. I am the sixth daughter of the Lord General Gautier of Val Chevin and his wife, Elaine."

"Six daughters? Your mother must be a strong woman."

"She has eight daughters, I have two younger sisters, and four brothers as well, all older. I'm afraid after so many children I carry little of my father's prestige. To be asked to court by Empress Celene was a great honour."

"I've never seen a noblewoman serving as a maid before, things are very different in Denerim."

"That must be so glamorous, to have even your minor nobles considered in court. If I should marry high enough I may be invited as a lady, and my sisters have married highly. But truly I would prefer to be in court as a scholar, rather than the wife of one. Empress Celene is a great patron of the arts, but you must already know that."

"You study?" He honestly hadn't expected that, and cracked one eye open to reassess her. Pretty and smart, if a little naïve.

"Yes, sire. I study military history, the Tevinter Imperium fascinates me."

He smiled at her answer, studiously short. He had talked to scholars plenty, and once they began talking about their subject of study it was impossible to get them to stop. He could only imagine how quickly Celene had broken her of that habit.

"You'll have to tell me about your studies, sometime."

Ameline blushed. "At your leisure, of course, sire. You must be tired, I shall let you rest and have your armour polished for you."

Alistair almost stopped her, as listening to her natter about obscure Tevinter trivia sounded like the perfect way to pass the afternoon, her quiet, constant voice blocked out more troubling thoughts. But he let her go. The day had been so packed with unexpected excitement that it was easy to forget he had only arrived that morning, and his body still protested at the lack of rest.

He stared at the ceiling, trying to stave off broken thoughts of betrayal and heartache, intertwining them with soft hands and soft words.

Terrorised thoughts led to terrorised dreams. Dark eyes hovered close to him, words of Tevinter and Orlais drifted through him, the voice alternating between frozen Ferelden and tender Orlesian. He dreamed of great green flowers and oysters that held pearls the size of his fist, of hounds with dusty blonde fur and wide smiles.

He dreamed of the statue in front of Fort Drakon, once golden and triumphant, now white and gaunt, her swords no longer defensively crossed, but raised at the city in accusation.

When Alistair awoke he was covered in sweat, disoriented in a strange room. It took a moment for him to realise where he was, then the last day came back to him in a rush, sending a wave of nausea through his gut. He held back a gag. He couldn't let this undo him, his people were counting on him. It wouldn't come to war.

He realised that it was a knock on the door that had awoken him, and he called for the person to enter. Unsurprisingly it was Ameline, bearing his polished armour.

"Thank you," he said as she lay it down next to him. She blushed in a way he was beginning to get used to. "No, really, whenever my manservant takes my armour away I don't see it for another week. Once he lost it completely."

She hid a giggle behind her hand. "The welcoming banquet won't be for another hour, if you'd like to get some more sleep, I can leave."

"No, no, thank you for waking me early. You'll be with me tonight, won't you?"

"Of course, sire, I'll be attending you through your entire stay."

"Good, good."

"Is something worrying you, sire? If you have any need, you only have to ask."

He chuckled. "I don't suppose you know everyone's names?"

A radiant smile spread across her face, but she almost immediately stifled into into a little quirk of her lips. Her voice was a little strained. "Of course I do, sire."

"Good, then I'll expect you to not leave my side for a second. Not even to sleep or bathe. This might get messy, but it's a risk I'm willing to take." At Ameline's startled look he gave a sly smile, which had her examining her toes and trying not to smile. "It's alright, you can laugh at me. Everyone else does."

"My lord!" she exclaimed through giggles, looking more than a little scandalised. She waved off his silliness, but he claimed an earnest smile for his troubles. "Please, let me help you with your armour."

"No, I can handle the armour, I have another request for you." He began strapping himself into the armour, and paused to look up at her bewildered face. "I wish to know everything there is to know about Tevinter Imperium military history."

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, her voice a constant ambient noise as he prepared, rising excitedly now and then, which prompted him to ask a polite question. Alistair barely heard most of what she said, just letting her voice keep away any important thoughts that threatened to break his composure. Occasionally she would stop talking to fuss over him, straightening a piece of armour or smoothing back his hair, all shyness gone while she spoke on her subject of study.

It was nice. Nothing to write home over, but a lot better than he had expected his afternoon to be.

At the tolling of a bell, she gave him a nod, it was time to go. "Straight down the stairs. The grand banquet hall is at the bottom and to the left."

He knew that, the massive hall acted as a thoroughfare to the rest of the castle, but the words calmed his nerves, she wasn't going to let him screw up tonight.

The antechamber was filled with people, some drifting through to the banquet, others who had stopped to talk, all of such finery that he almost felt shabby by comparison. Men wore the armour polished so brightly that it was difficult to look at, house colours in sashes and plumes, but their blinding brilliance was nothing compared to the women. Celene's style of dress was obviously the latest fashion, all the ladies of court wore their own outsized flower, all in pale silk. There were fake eyelashes that made their eyes look like strange butterflies, adorned with tiny gems that glittered in the light, and laquered fingernails that made plastic sounds when they touched something hard. All the fooferah of their gowns was overwhelming, some wore pearls and others feathers, their hair piled on top of their heads in elaborate fashions that must have taken hours to complete.

Unfortunately, he had little time to be enchanted or horrified by the frivolity, because a few things were becoming glaringly clear. First, that he had only seen the tip of the Orlesian court iceberg. Second, that he was drastically out of his league. And third and most importantly, that his private life was nowhere near as private as he would have liked it to be.

"We've all heard the talk before," he heard one lady trill to a group of tittering onlookers. "A man beds a woman and then it's; 'I love you but things are just too complicated.' And then three weeks later you meet Nanette or Janelle, who is not, by any definition of the word, _complicated_."

The gaggle of ladies broke into scandalised laughter and several butterfly eyes flicked his way, their grins hidden behind glittering false nails.

Oh, fantastic. This was going to be a really relaxing night.

"Alistair."

The king let out a sigh of relief. "Teagan."

"How are you holding up?" His uncle looked harried, his hair slightly out of place, his eyes darting around the room. Alistair knew that look, it only ever meant one thing. _Disaster_.

"I..." Well he didn't really have a way to finish that sentence.

"We were all surprised to see her." Teagan said. "Let's keep it together."

"No turning into a blubbering mess in Orlesian court, got... it..."

His joke petered out as he caught sight of the houndmaster loping into the room, and somehow he knew who would be trailing behind him. It wasn't jealousy. He hoped. He just hadn't seen any indication of Ameline's assertions that Cedric was romancing his general.

They stopped in the hall, several eyes turning their way, words muttered behind feather fans. Alistair watched them, assessing. They stood an appropriate distance apart, or as appropriate as two people could get in this mess and still hear each other. They didn't touch, their body language was all formality, and the way she gestured as she spoke didn't indicate anything but a military conversation. She was still in her armour, her cloak abandoned in favour of a blue sash, weighed down with medals. Nothing but two generals talking war, there was nothing unusual about that.

At least, until Cedric reached out and tucked one of her braids behind her ear. Their movement seemed to slow with the intimacy of the touch. She bit her bottom lip and cast her eyes down shyly. Alistair recognised that look, the exact same look he had seen when he gave her a rose from Lothering. Less a warrior, more a woman. A chill of jealousy shot through his chest.

"Alistair," Teagan hissed. He was tugged around and saw that Celene was approaching.

"Celene," he bowed and offered his arm, hoping that his voice had come out charming, rather than strangled.

"Alistair, it is so good to see you are well again." She took his arm and gracefully swayed beside him as he led her into the banquet hall.

"Yes, it seems that Orlesian heat does not agree with me. I'm sorry if it had you worried."

"It is not an uncommon reaction for Fereldans. King Cailan was bedridden for two days on his first visit to Jader."

The Empress' arrival seemed to signal the idlers into the banquet hall, and Alistair found them being followed by a cloud of pale silk and glowing armour. Celene had changed her dress into a violently bright gold arrangement, which he had to admit might have been heinous on another woman, but seemed only to enhance her already formidable presence.

He led her to the head seat and then glanced desperately at Ameline.

"You will sit to Empress Celene's left," the girl murmured. "To her right will be General Cousland, to your left will be Lady Vivian of the Ladies Diplomatic Association."

Ladies Diplomatic Association. Right. He could only begin to guess what that meant.

Celene waited while the lords, ladies and champions took up their places, a serene smile gracing her face and her hand resting in Alistair's. Everyone stood until the Empress was seated, then a legion of servants helped the ladies with their chairs, then Alistair sat, followed by the lords and then champions. It didn't escape his notice that General Cousland was the only woman, lady or champion, to be wearing armour, and she sat with the champions.

Celene raised her glass and began speaking in a high, clear voice. A speech. In Orlesian.

"Today we have two reasons to celebrate." Alistair nearly jumped out of his seat in surprise, then he realised the whisper was Ameline translating for him. "We are graced with the presence of the High King Alistair of Ferelden."

At this there was a smattering of applause and he bowed his head in acknowledgement.

"But we also celebrate the return of our generals from another successful campaign. Soon the Anderfels shall be part of the glory of Orlais, and everyone else can politely refrain from commenting."

"What?" Alistair hissed, turning to look at Ameline.

She shrugged. "I'm paraphrasing. Are you feeling well, sire? You look pale again."

"I'm fine." He tried to pretend he wasn't having a conversation with the girl behind his chair, keeping his eyes straight ahead and occasionally nodding in deference to Celene. "Does anyone here speak anything but Orlesian?"

"Most speak a variety of languages. You will be well again after the speeches. Empress Celene is now mentioning names of honour among the generals."

He had guessed that by the way Cousland was alternating between waving graciously to the court and looking like she was trying to become part of the chair she was sitting on. Cousland. Was he really thinking of her that way, now? Yes, he guessed he was, it was what she was now.

The speech seemed to go on and on and on. ("There were few casualties in the last battle, and none of name.") The Empress wasn't much of a talker outside court, but it seemed she had been saving up everything she didn't say during the day just to hit them all with it now. ("The Lords of the captured cities have come peaceably.") The court seemed happy enough with the arrangement, her speech often being punctuated by cheers of agreement. ("General Cousland and three others will receive medals of honour.")

Finally the speech ended in thunderous applause and the room broke out into excited chatter. Alistair breathed a quiet sigh of relief and gave Celene an impressed smile. He would never have been able to keep an audience entertained for that long.

"Alistair, have you met Lady Vivian?" Celene asked.

"No, I have...n't..." Alistair glanced to his left and was pulled up short. Ladies Diplomatic Association. Right.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sire." Vivian gave him a dazzling smile. He was momentarily struck dumb by her beauty. She was artfully made up, her lips pouty and red, voluminous blonde curls cascaded down her back, and there was plenty of back to see. She was extraordinarily proportioned, with a waist so tiny he felt he could fit both hands around it so his fingertips met, and breasts and hips so comically bountiful that he felt his cheeks turn scarlet just from looking at her.

"And... and you, Lady Vivian." Alistair cleared his throat and heard a whimpering giggle from Ameline.

So this was to be the wine and women portion of his bedazzlement. He gently shifted his wine cup a little further from him. He hadn't really expected Celene to hit him this hard and fast. Or quite so obviously. Not that he had anything specific against buxom blonde courtesans, but it was hardly subtle.

Vivian was completely enchanting, charming and gracious, and she carried the conversation easily, seeming to know the exact questions to get him talking and when to let him set back in his chair and listen. She was well versed on a wide range of subjects, from parts of Orlesian culture he wanted to learn about to trade arrangements and principality issues. He wondered how thoroughly she had been briefed and how long it had taken her to learn all his mannerisms.

It might have been an incredibly pleasant conversation if his eyes didn't keep wandering without his permission. The general picked at her food, pushed it around her plate before giving the pretence and reaching for a fig. She spoke in muted tones to Celene. She broke into the only smile of the evening when Cedric waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively across the room, and quickly schooled her eyes back on her plate.

Part of him had hoped that her sickly condition might have been attributed to the travelling conditions, but he had known in his heart that wasn't the case. The High General of Orlais may have done as much riding and fighting as her men, but her accommodations would put theirs to shame. She wasn't sleeping on damp ground or forced to go weeks without bathing.

No, she wasn't well. He watched her take delicate bites of the fruit in her gloved hand, the hollows of her cheeks arching into each bite sharply. Her skin and hair had been scrubbed clean, her armour polished, her eyebrows shaped and lips sweetly reddened, and if anything she looked more macabre than she had on first arrival. The comforts of the city only made her discomfort more extreme by contrast. She fidgeted, eyes darting, like she expected to see danger in every shadow. It seemed like the tension was the only thing holding her together.

"Alistair, you must not have seen our General Cousland in many years," Celene said, starting him out of staring.

"Uh, no, I haven't."

The general slowly brought her gaze around as the topic of conversation turned to her. Her hollow stare sent a chill down his spine. Was she even in the room with them?

"She has made vast strides in her art," Celene cooed, clearly proud of her champion. "We haven't a swordsman in the court who can beat her."

Terrifying. "I don't doubt that."

"General, would you consent to a demonstration?"

The general looked for all the world like she was about to refuse and damn the consequences. She licked her lower lip, her mouth pursed. "Of course, your majesty."

A demonstration. This should be hilarious.

General Cousland rose to her feet, a bell chimed that made a hush fall over the hall. All eyes turned to the royal table.

"Empress Celene has requested a demonstration of swordsmanship for the pleasure of the High King Alistair. Who will challenge?"

There was a flutter of excitement at the tables, and for a moment it looked like no one would challenge her. Ladies laughed behind their fans, and several men were given good natured shoves, each recipient immediately offering up their hands in surrender to their aggressor. Finally a middle aged man stood.

"Lord General Millier of Mont-de-Grace challenges."

There was a round of polite applause and the lord made his way to the empty floor in front of the royal table. Cousland drew from her hips two weapons. Alistair was surprised to see that her slim longswords were gone, instead she wielded what appeared to be a pair of roasting forks, two pronged and barely the length of his hand. The spikes looked wickedly sharp and the design was sturdy.

The duellists bowed to each other and Celene announced the start of the match.

It was a simple display, sportsmanlike. The Orlesian thrust and swung, a textbook example of swordsmanship, and each blow was parried by the short forks, singing close to the Ferelden's body but never touching her.

If the man couldn't hit her and she was incapable of returning any serious blow, he couldn't see how this match would ever end. They circled, thrust and parried, she never made any move to injure her opponent.

"I'm not familiar with those weapons, what are they?" Alistair asked Celene.

The empress opened her mouth to answer but was cut off by a screech of steel. Lord Millier's sword slid between the prongs of one fork, the sound of blade in crook excruciating. With a flick of her wrist, Cousland snapped the blade from the hilt, sending it clattering to the ground. Before the lord could react to this turn of events, she landed a high kick on his sternum.

He fell backwards, hitting the floor with a clash of armour, and held up his hands in submission.

"Sword breakers." Vivian answered for Celene, a note of admiration in her voice. She sat back, resting her wine glass against her breast. "Breaking swords and breaking hearts. Would that I had a fraction of her way with generals."

The court applauded the pair as Cousland helped Millier to his feet.

"Well fought, Lord Millier," she said, then turned back to the seated lords. "Who challenges?"

Champion General Stephan was the next to lose his sword, and before Cousland could ask for challengers again, Celene flicked her wrist and her handmaiden ran to the floor to whisper in the general's ear.

Cousland looked like she had just bitten into a lemon. She threw a pleading glance at the empress who simply smiled back at her serenely.

"I challenge..." Her mouth quirked in a scowl. "I challenge Champion Hound Master Ouberman."

Most of the attending nobles were too polite to comment on Celene's choice, but there was more than one guffaw and some outright laughter. This was cruel. Alistair frowned, watching her eyes light with anger.

Cedric stood up, a good foot taller than the general, and bowed deeply. His broad mouth was set. He, at least, did not appreciate Celene's sense of humour. He drew two shortswords and Cousland tossed aside one of her swordbreakers, folding her right arm behind her back. Hound masters were no swordsmen. Fighting at her full ability, even with defensive weapons, was likely to see him injured.

The start of the match was announced.

Neither moved. Cedric, his reach so much longer, his stance so much wider, dwarfed his opponent. She looked willowy and frail next to him, as though his first strike would break her. She took no stance, simply holding her regal posture, arm behind her back, swordbreaker hanging loosely by her side. They held each other's eyes, waiting, ignoring the titters of the people watching them.

Cousland's brow furrowed, Cedric worried his lip with his teeth. There was a silent conversation, Alistair realised. The hound master didn't want to strike her, the general didn't want to hurt him. Each was trying to assure the other of their innocence in this situation.

Alistair wanted to admonish Celene, to call off the match, but he held his tongue.

Finally Cedric lashed out, his strike shaky. Cousland leaned aside, not moving her feet, not even bringing her weapon to bear.

With more confidence, the hound master lashed out, one sword, then the other. Cousland leaned away from one, her swordbreaker parrying the other. She stepped back, taking a firmer stance. They began to circle, steel singing off steel, he tested her defenses. He'd find no hole, Alistair knew her speed.

"Like we practised." The words were just a whisper, barely audible even at the royal table. Cedric jerked his head in a nod, and lunged forward.

She was trying not to humiliate him. Celene had trained her to embarrass men at court, then forced her to go against her barely trained lover. Alistair couldn't believe the sadism of this, thinly veiled as culture. Cousland slowed her movements, allowing each thrust to follow through before striking it down, trying to let him save face. Every report said that Orlais had the best kennels in the Thedas outside Ferelden, they had nothing to complain about with their hound master, least of all his skills with a sword.

Things sped up on the floor as Cedric found his footing, the strikes came faster, a steady rhythm of steel on steel, a dance of practised footwork. Both were doing well, movements smooth, blows steady.

He struck out with the pommel of one sword, surprising her with a blow to the sternum. She stumbled back and the watchers gasped collectively. It was the first time that night she'd been struck, and it had been clearly unintentional. Cousland's right hand flew to her chest reflexively, and her lover stood back while she regained her breath.

They circled again, but it was apparent that Cousland was satisfied that the court had received its show. As Cedric lashed out, she caught his left blade and snapped it. He barely flinched, dropping the hilt to the ground and continuing his assault. Thrust, parry, swipe, fall back, push forward. He was giving her a run for her money, that much was obvious, and it was a far better showing than anyone had expected.

He swung high and she ducked, a trail of braids flying out behind her. There was a tiny stutter in the sing of his sword and one of her braids fell to the ground.

The whole room seemed to freeze. Cousland stared at the braid lying lifeless on the ground. Cedric watched her with terrified eyes, clearly aware that he was now in extremely serious trouble.

She looked from the braid to her lover, her face a mask of indignation.

As fast as lightning one of her feet hooked behind Cedric's knees and her swordbreaker slid over his sword. The falling man's own weight broke off his sword in his hand and he hit the ground with a resounding thud. Cedric shook his head, clearing stars from his eyes, then grinned.

He held up in his closed fist, presenting to the court the severed braid.

Celene was the first to lead the applause, soon growing to thunderous proportions. Cousland helped him to his feet, and after a quick glance at the crowd and the tiniest quirk of her lips, kissed his cheek.

The hound master touched the tender spot on his cheek, looking a little stunned, and watched the general resume her seat, before holding up his trophy one last time and loping back to his own place.

Cousland took up her seat again and gave Celene a scathing look. "I hope that was to your satisfaction, your majesty."

"You are too serious, general," Celene laughed. "And look how happy your lover is."

While she was completely right, if Cedric was any happier there'd be two of him, her comment certainly sucked any of the humour out of the situation. The general looked, if it was possible, even more stonefaced.

"As much as you enjoy the rumours surrounding myself and Hound Master Ouberman, my lady, I consider my generals' safety neither an opportunity for romantic hijinx, nor a joke."

Really? Alistair raised an eyebrow. When Wynne had given him the talk about where babies come from, she'd laughed so hard she couldn't stand up, despite the fact that they were in the deep roads and likely to be murdered at any second. And when Oghren had started talking about her legs. Pretty much any time that ended in someone being mortified, usually him.

The conversation in the hall was suspiciously active all of a sudden, looks being cast at the general and the hound master, barely concealed by courtesy. Even a few were being cast Alistair's way, and he made a point of re-engaging Vivian, partly to stop the gossip, partly to block out the image of Cedric's delighted grin as soft pink lips pressed against his cheek, the general's body stretching alarmingly thin as she stood on tiptoes to reach him.

The night became slowly less rigid in formality, soon people rose from their seats to converse or dance, and servants quietly remove any evidence that it had ever been anything but a ball. There was music, interspersed with acts for the Empress' enjoyment, from acrobats to firebreathers, each as impressive as the last.

Lady Vivian stayed by Alistair's side for most of the festivities, keeping a discrete distance when he broke off to talk to someone, but somehow always being in easy reach of him. Celene was going to be very disappointed when he didn't bed her, she'd obviously been given some quite specific instructions with regards to him.

It wasn't until quite late in the night that he spotted General Cousland, alone, sipping at her wine and trying to blend in with the wall. It wasn't easy for her. She stood out among the Orlesians. An opal among diamonds, she shone with a different light. None of them had hair quite as dark and most women were half a foot shorter than her, even her posture practically screamed 'foreigner'.

"General... Cousland," Alistair said awkwardly.

"Sire." She bowed, spilling her wine a little. There was a rosy sheen to her cheeks, she'd been hitting the drink harder than the food, that much was certain. He wasn't entirely eager for her to address him like that, but he supposed he'd started the formality.

"I'm surprised to see you here."

"Yes, I'm afraid I've neglected to write to Fergus recently, sire, so he had no news to pass on to you."

"Had he told me, I wouldn't have believed him."

She rose one judgemental eyebrow. "You are surprised to see a general at the head of an army?"

"I'm surprised to see a Fereldan in Orlais. Especially a Fereldan I considered loyal." He couldn't keep a note of anger out of his voice.

"I'm a Grey Warden, not a Fereldan. I have no nationality."

"You wouldn't do it, would you?" he asked, surprising himself with the question. He had enough questions to last all evening even if her answers were brief, but this one was burning him.

She looked genuinely confused and swayed a little as she gestured with her cup. "Do what, sire?"

"March on Ferelden."

"Doing so by myself would seem ill-advised."

"Don't joke about this," he warned.

"I will do as Empress Celene commands, sire. It isn't the providence of Grey Wardens to decide the fate of nations." Her words were regal, gracious, and so audacious that they left him speechless. She was willing to disappear for five years, turn up at the head of the Orlesian army, and then look him in the eye and claim that as a completely reasonable sequence of events.

"How could you? You gave up everything to defend Ferelden, and now you have no problem conquering it?"

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then something over his shoulder caught her eye. "Please excuse me, sire, Empress Celene is calling me."

With a gentle bow she walked away, disappearing into clouds of Orlesian silk.


	4. The More Loving One

**Chapter 3**

**Let The More Loving One Be Someone**

–

Peace treaties.

Why was it always peace treaties?

It wasn't as if Alistair didn't know that he was here to create and sign a treaty, that was to be expected. He just hated all the additional worries. He had been relatively silent for the two days they had been effectively locked in the meeting room, allowing Celene and her advisors to state their terms, sometimes accompanied by a slight shake of Zevran's head when they made an untrue claim and often followed by a cry of outrage by one of his own retinue. Teagan was developing a fairly impressive forehead vein.

People could say what they wanted about Celene, she didn't pull any punches. Every one of her terms blatantly favoured Orlais, without so much as a single concession to Ferelden. But that was to be expected. When arguing the point with Harrowmont over treaties the discussions could last for weeks, and Alistair had enough experience with these kind of meetings to know that this was the starting point for negotiations. Celene would demand the world, he'd offer her an apple, and they'd end up somewhere in the middle.

What surprised him most was that there was a certain element of comedy to the proceedings, largely due to one High General, who was, without a doubt, living up to Celene's claims that she would be invaluable to their discussion. She hadn't said a word for the entire time, and in fact hadn't made eye contact for the entire time, except when Teagan's voice started to carry a note of hysteria, then she would slowly look up, offering the Bann an icy glare. His mouth would snap shut and his colour would rise another shade while he silently fumed.

It didn't escape Alistair's notice that this was no venue for swordbreakers, she was carrying her longswords, ready to leap to Celene's defence at any second. This was likely what the empress had meant about her contribution. She was the muscle, intended to intimidate, and she was very good at it.

"No, no, no, we cannot have a Ferelden trading post this side of Frostback," Teagan said. "Orlais is both better equipped to build a post and less impeded in construction."

"Ferelden would benefit more from its existence," one of Celene's advisors replied, causing another wave of indignation from the Fereldans.

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose, this bloody trading post would be the death of him. To be fair, it was one of the only conditions he had a serious problem with. Not so much the idea of having a set trading point for imports, but more Celene's continued insistence that a Fereldan workforce lug all the materials across the range at their own expense and man the post, making the repeated hazardous journey alone. Maybe she was overestimating how much his country really wanted Orlesian silk and incense, or maybe she was just being stubborn to prove a point.

"Why don't we build two posts?" Alistair threw out. Every eye in the room turned to him, questioning, looking like he had lost his mind.

"Two posts, sire?"

"One either side of the mountains." He indicated on the map. "Contraband gets stopped at the border, each post only has to make import and export runs half as often, both countries have free access to the supplies without every merchant having to cross the range."

There were a few exchanged glances, but it was Celene who spoke. "Who do you propose should fund this?"

He shrugged. "Each country funds its own post."

"I am... willing to concede. This sounds like the most practical proposal." The empress inclined her head as though she was graciously giving him her first born child. Cousland's mouth quirked, almost smiling, still examining the wood grain of the table.

Alistair leaned back against his chair, his burst of kingliness done with, and let the others debate the point about chantries and extradition and whatever else they could come up with to ensure they wouldn't be done any time soon. There were times when he desperately missed Wynne, he was certain she could end this whole thing with a stern look and a lecture on working together.

Extradition. Why were they even talking about that? Crime and punishment was relatively identical in both countries. Now they were just being contrary. A deserter in Ferelden gets beheaded, in Orlais they get keelhauled. Maker forbid a deserter should be inappropriately executed, this was an issue that seriously conflicted with peace. Clearly.

He'd have to ask Zevran for a rundown at the end of the day, there was no way he could seriously listen to all this. Now there was a perk of being king he'd never get sick of, having people to listen to things for him when he'd rather be thinking about cheese. Or pretty grey eyes that flicked to his for just a moment.

The talks went on for hours, the sun dipped under the horizon, food was brought and taken away by servants, Celene finally conceded that perhaps deserters could just be extradited, Teagan had to take a breather before his head exploded. It wasn't until the late evening that Celene finally called an end to the day, allowing everyone to leave and insisting they take the next morning off before resuming talks.

Alistair could not have been more relieved. He decided to leave his summary meeting with Zevran until the morning, he needed to be rid of political talk for the day.

Ameline met him in the hall, already brandishing a glass of water and a waiting to take his weapons. He gave her a nod of thanks and downed the water in one, letting her trail behind him. He had to give the girl one thing, she was good at anticipating his needs.

She didn't talk as they ascended the stairs, simply holding anything that looked too heavy and was easily accessible, waiting until he was safely in his room before filling him in on the business of the day while she stripped his outer armour.

"Word has been received from the army, they will be presenting at Val Royeaux within the week before returning to their homes. One of your hounds has been fighting with another in the kennels, but Cedric assures me that the situation is under control. Empress Celene has asked you to meet with her after you have rested sufficiently, she would like to speak with you this evening in the lake overhang, but insisted that if you are too tired, the meeting can be delayed."

"I'll meet with her. Lake overhang?"

"The balcony on the upper tier, sire, overlooking the gardens. It is directly above this room. The Empress spends most of her spare time there."

He watched her while she worked. It was strange, his first instinct had been to label her as a shadow of the woman he really wanted by his side, but after three days of watching a stranger inhabit the dying body of the woman he loved, Ameline's vibrancy was setting her apart. She was almost closer to his pup than the pup herself was now.

That was a horrible thing to think, he wished he could take it back.

"She'll probably want some time to herself for now, we'll go later."

"Of course, sire."

She dabbed a wet cloth at the back of his neck, a habit she'd taken up ever since his imaginary heatstroke episode. He didn't object, it was more than welcome and she smelled nice. Like some kind of flower, he was never any good at picking scents. Something light and sweet, like a violet.

"I think you owe me a rundown of the battle against Andraste."

"Surely you must be tired of hearing me talk, sire, you don't need to be polite."

"No one has ever accused me of being polite," he said. "And it's Alistair."

"Sire?"

"My name, I'd like you to use it."

"I... I.... sire, it's not appropriate to..." Ameline stammered, wide eyed at his request.

"Consider that an order." Alistair gave her his most charming smile and she relaxed, smiling with him, looking a little like a teenager breaking the rules.

"Very well... Alistair."

He liked the way she blushed. Many years ago he would have found it a sign of childishness, of inexperience, but after everything he'd seen a little innocence was refreshing. Definitely a change from the living brick walls he was being forced to talk to all day. The freezing stare of Cousland, of the other generals, even at times Celene herself, made him appreciate the way Ameline looked at him. A little starry-eyed, a little playful.

"Now, the battles with Andraste, if you will."

He listened to the story of Andraste's downfall, her jealous husband abandoning his duties in grief, betraying her to their mutual enemy.

It was a cautionary tale he'd heard a thousand times before, but he was more interested in Ameline's telling, the way her mouth worked, shrugging in dissatisfaction at the more memorable parts of the tale. She was so even-handed in her telling, making it more a history lesson than a chantry lecture. In fact she didn't mention the Maker once, portraying Andraste as a brilliant general, not a martyr. A very unpopular view in Orlais.

He stopped her just before the execution part of the tale, knowing that he was keeping Celene waiting listening to her lady's tales. She took no offence, just smiling happily and helping him to rebuckle his armour for the meeting. He'd never taken the damn things off and put them back on so many times in a few days.

The lake overhang was dramatically named and more dramatically positioned. Alistair's own view showed off the lake and the flowers, but from the upper floor it made the gardens look more like a battlefield, not a single detail outside the Empress' notice.

The woman herself sat in a throne overlooking her land, back to the door. A dozen guards were posted around her. If anyone wanted to assassinate her, this was the perfect place and it obviously made her men edgy.

"Alistair," she greeted without turning around.

"Celene." He kissed her hand and took up a seat next to her.

"It's good of you to join me at this late hour. We both have a large week ahead of us."

"I assumed you wanted to speak about something important."

The king watched his counterpart. Her face was cast dark, something in her eyes he hadn't seen before. She contemplated the lake, making none of her usual effort to engage him.

"That is true. We have been in negotiations for two days now, and I must admit I am pleased wth our progress."

"I sense a 'but' coming."

"But..." she conceded. "I wish to know how you see the future of our countries' interaction."

A reasonable question, Alistair supposed. He had thought about it often, and frankly he saw it as strained and belligerent. But that wasn't really what she was asking, she was asking how he wanted it to go.

"My only aim is to maintain Ferelden's independence. Beyond that, I hope we can keep things civil."

Celene gave a wan chuckle. "Independence. It sounds reasonable, does it not? Reasonable, but naïve. Things are changing, Alistair. Our army grows by the day, as do our territories. Within your lifetime there will be no Thedas, just Orlais. Do you intend to be the sole rebel? A state separated from the rest of the world, bound by ancient laws and cut off from territories it could be freely interacting with. Perhaps the only source of military conflict, continuing petty struggles where people could instead live in peace."

_She will make it seem like a good idea, I can guarantee you that._

Zevran's words echoed in his head. This was how an Empress gained her power, making her opponents seem backwards and misled, even to themselves. The dystopia she described certainly seemed like a bad idea.

"Should I take this conversation as a declaration of war, then? Or are we just idly chatting about my kingdom's destruction?"

"I will make no threats, for now. I offer you this as a warning. Orlais will continue to expand, you already know this. Whether you come into our fold over time with diplomacy or quickly with bloodshed matters little to me."

"So this whole treaty business is just a ruse, what you really expect from this is the first step toward Ferelden becoming a territory of Orlais. I have to say, Celene, that's cold-blooded."

"Please do not mistake me. I am more than happy to see this treaty go ahead and I hope for many years of peace between us. It may be more accurate to say that I invited you here so that you would understand Orlais' future, and how it will effect you."

Anger welled in Alistair's chest. He almost laughed. This political talk, these euphemisms. All she was doing was trying to scare him into fealty. It disgusted him.

"Soon your army will return to the Anderfels, leaving Val Royeaux all but unguarded. Insinuating yourself as a threat to Ferelden may not be the best idea."

Celene chuckled. "Of course. I keep you from your rest, Alistair. Let us complete this treaty and leave tomorrow to another day."

The dismissal was obvious, so Alistair rose and walked away, but he didn't believe for a second that Celene actually meant to let him get out of the city without her seal on his actions. It had been a bad move to remind her of her vulnerability to the south, it wouldn't scare her, only make her more determined to have them under her banner.

He dreamed that night of Andraste, tied to the pyre, watching her husband, her lover, stand at the right hand of her executioner. Maferath hadn't meant it to turn out this way, his eyes were filled with pain. It wasn't until after he turned to stone, a statue that watched her impassively, not seeing her burn, that the screaming started.

In his dream Andraste was never spared the fire.

He woke gasping, unease nearly choking him. It was like the jaws of a trap were closing around him, he was trapped. He couldn't see how just yet, but he was trapped.

Ameline was conspicuously absent, a faceless servant delivered his breakfast, and he found himself missing her company. The morning was free, he was sure any second someone would find him to tell him that Denerim had burnt to the ground or rats had eaten his horse or something else that needed his immediate attention. He was almost looking forward to it, being alone with his thoughts seemed like a dangerous activity nowadays.

It was at least midmorning when there came a knock at his door, and he nearly melted with relief when Zevran entered.

"Using doors, now? You must be losing your touch."

"It seemed the proper thing to do, sire. I wouldn't want to catch you undressed, I may never sleep again."

"Just tell me you have some good news, Celene has me completely depressed."

Zevran grinned. "I did warn you that she was a force to be reckoned with."

"You did," Alistair agreed. "And I will never doubt you again. Now tell me what's going on."

"Word has it that while we were locked away yesterday there was a great meeting of the Archdukes, at the Empress' command. While the subject matter of this meeting was closely guarded it is the popular opinion that Nevarra has stabilised enough to install a king, who should be announced within the month."

Hell. Celene wasn't kidding when she said that Orlais was expanding quickly. "You don't have any good news for me?"

"Not unless you are a lover of spectacle. It also seems our hounds tore apart one of the Empress' bitches during the night. Ouberman apparently had quite the fit of hysterics."

"Mabari don't attack other dogs. Ameline said Cedric had this under control."

"As it turns out, they do and he doesn't." Zevran shrugged.

Alistair sighed and grabbed his sword. "Duty calls, I guess."

The elf followed him downstairs, heading for the kennels. He guessed this was an improvement over the disasters he was expecting, but it didn't look good in Orlais' eyes to have a pack of wild dogs tear apart one of their own. It was almost a relief to have something to distract him from Celene's ominous words the night before, which had ruminated in his head all morning.

The kennels were on the far side of the gardens, a far walk. They smelled of clean hay and fine hair. Nothing but the best for the Empress' hounds. They were strange creatures, with none of the physical imposition of the Mabari. Alistair couldn't imagine what use they'd be in war, but the Orlesians swore by them. If he was honest, he was a little interested to see Cedric at work, he had a far reaching reputation.

A reputation that apparently wasn't restricted to his military technique, Alistair thought sourly as he rounded the corner.

Yellow morning light filtered through the windows, casting Cedric gold as he leaned against the wall, no more than a few inches separating him and his lover, who was smiling at something he'd said. Her face was lit, animated. They didn't touch, but one of her braids was wound around his fingers, his thumb toying with the end as they spoke. Alistair blushed at the intimate moment interrupted.

The moment the couple spotted him they leapt apart.

"Uh, thank you for helping me with the Mabari, General Cousland," Cedric stammered.

"Of course, Master Ouberman." She was much smoother, her voice cool and clean, no hint of embarrassment. The light fled from her face, she was the stone general again.

Alistair stood frozen as she breezed past him with a polite nod of her head. His stomach twisted into knots. That wasn't her in the arms of another man. They were barely touching. Even if they'd been making love in the hay, it wasn't his place to care. But he needed to talk to her. He was here about the hounds, he didn't have time. There were all kinds of official reasons for him to just let her walk by, but all he wanted to do was run after her.

Zevran glanced at him, seeming to understand that the king was slightly in shock. Mercifully he stepped forward, leading Cedric away while talking in a muted tone, gesturing toward the Mabari.

Alistair turned and strode after the general, letting her reach the gardens before he caught up with her, far out of earshot from everyone else. "Wait."

"Your majesty," she bowed.

"'Your majesty'? You're just making fun of me now, we're not in court."

"I don't understand, sire." Her face was sincerely blank, as if she didn't understand how she'd offended him. Maker, she was as stubborn as a drunken dwarf.

"Fine, we'll play it your way. Do you want to explain to me what's going on, here? And don't play dumb, you know what I'm talking about."

She pouted, almost petulant, like she was considering claiming ignorance despite his protests. "You ask me why I'm in Orlais, but you haven't given me any argument why I wouldn't be."

"Why you... What?"

"Why wouldn't I be here, sire?"

"I thought it was something of an unspoken rule, if you have a statue of yourself in Denerim, you don't defect to Val Royeaux." Stubborn as a drunken dwarf.

"I was never part of the Fereldan military, defection is impossible."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this. Don't you have any loyalty to your home?"

She shifted her weight and refused to look at him. "I think Ferelden has had its fair share of my particular brand of _loyalty_."

She spat the word out like it tasted bad, disgust written all over her face. Disgust with herself.

"What are you talking about?" Alistair whispered, his wrenching stomach making its way down to his shoes.

"How is Ferelden?" She met his eyes suddenly. "Harrowmont? The Dalish? The Circle?"

Alistair stopped dead. _Half dead and under siege. Receding from society, making themselves outcasts. Increasingly conservative and tyrannical._ That wasn't it, was it? Ferelden had its share of problems but they couldn't just run away from them.

"We're moving forward, you should be there with us."

She gave him a sad smile. "You've learned to talk like a royal. I'm glad to see it."

"Pup..." He reached out to her, letting his fingertip trail down the braids that hung over her shoulder.

She jerked back. "It's a Grey Warden's duty to maintain neutrality, I didn't have that choice in Denerim."

"You could have had anything you wanted. I would have given it to you." The words went straight from his chest to his lips, unfiltered, and he instantly wished he could take them back. Her face fell, her shoulders sagged, she looked like he had just hit her.

"Ferelden is better off without me." Her words were quiet but clear. She pushed past him, into the gardens. "It's been good to see you again, sire."

Alistair couldn't quite figure out how that conversation had gone so wrong. He hadn't expected it to be easy, but he'd thought he'd get somewhere, at least get some answers. He shouldn't have said he'd give her anything. It took his mind spiralling back to the last time he'd seen her happy. It didn't take a genius to see that their quest against the Blight had taken its toll on her, but sometimes it was like she forgot, like she wasn't in the middle of a battlefield.

The last time he saw her smile before that dark glint had entered her eye was the landsmeet. After Anora had been taken away, Loghain's body dragged from the room, the last voices of dissent silenced, when it had truly hit everyone that Ferelden was united under Alistair himself. She had smiled, and it had been so beautiful it broke his heart, he knew what he had to do.

After that each blow seemed to come heavier, met with cold pragmatism. She still laughed and joked, kept everyone's spirits up, kept the army moving. She'd joked with him the night she'd come to him about Morrigan, kept him calm and in control when he wanted to scream.

_I'll deal the final blow_.

When Riordan told them the price they'd have to pay to kill the archdemon she hadn't flinched. Not a single moment of hesitation before she offered her life up. There was just something about the way she'd said it, like it was the final puzzle piece falling into place, like she'd been expecting this all along.

How could he not have noticed her spiralling downwards?

"How are you faring, sire?"

Zevran's voice jerked him out of his reverie. The elf sauntered up beside him, waiting patiently for him to speak. His eyes were still fixed on the spot she'd disappeared. He was missing some piece of her puzzle.

"You took her out of the city."

"Sire?"

"The day of the Hero celebrations, you were the one to smuggle her out of the city."

"Is now truly the time for accusations?"

"What happened to her, Zevran?"

"Nothing of importance." Zevran shrugged, looking sincere enough.

"Why don't you tell me, and I'll decide how important it is."

The elf let out a heavy breath, considering his words carefully before he spoke. "There is little to say. Sten, Leliana and I were walking past her room, we heard her fall. She..."

Alistair watched his perfectly composed friend stutter and frown, bringing a hand up to his mouth. He'd never asked about that day. Zevran didn't want to talk about it, he didn't want to know. Now he needed her on their side or it could cost Ferelden everything, he needed to know.

"How did she fall?"

"We don't know. She had no injuries. She was not crying or stricken. She simply... fell and did not get back up. We took her to Highever and stayed with her there. She neither moved nor spoke a word for an entire week. On the seventh day she was gone, taking nothing with her and leaving no sign of where she was going."

"She said nothing? For a week?"

The elf paused, contemplating. "She used to talk in her sleep sometimes. Mumbled about a tournament."

"A tournament?"

"'I should have lost,' she would say. 'The tournament started this.' I don't suppose you can shed any light on this match."

"None." Alistair shook his head. "She didn't compete in anything when I knew her."

The two men stood in silent contemplation. The shock had faded mostly, giving way to anger. She had no right to do this, to put all of Ferelden in jeopardy because recovering from a Blight was hard work. Whatever this tournament was, it wasn't worth putting them under Orlesian rule.

Now she was a white general with a golden lover, lavished with glowing trinkets and her favourite foods, the darling of the court, while they were under threat of total annihilation. It didn't seem fair for him to find her flirting in the kennels, another man's hands threading through her hair, while he was in such distress. If someone had asked him a week ago for one word to sum her up, 'fair' would have been at the top of the list.

It took him a moment to remember why he had come down in the first place.

"What was wrong with the dogs?"

"Cedric was unsure, whatever took them over in the night has passed."

"Good. I'll apologise to Celene during the meeting."

The walk back to the palace seemed to stretch forever, green turning into white turning into gold. How is Ferelden? Ferelden is under bloody siege and could use a legendary general, that's how Ferelden is.

Zevran excused himself at the bottom of the stairs, trying to find out more about the Archdukes meeting. A spymaster's work was never done, but he had the rest of the morning to himself, it seemed, and he was relieved when he opened his door to see Ameline straightening out the room. She turned to him, a pretty smile lighting up her face.

"Sire, I'm sorry I wasn't attending you this morning."

"Ameline..." he said, giving her a tired smile.

"Alistair. Right. Sorry. Were you alright this morning?"

He laughed without humour. "It's been a very interesting morning."

"I did see you speaking with High General Cousland in the gardens. I... I heard the ladies talking, they said that you two used to be... involved. I'm sorry if she's causing you... distress..."

Alistair caught her fingers and held them as she started to touch his neck in her comforting way. Bloody women, they were a mystery to him and he highly doubted that was due to any lack of experience. The more he entrenched himself with women, the more confusing things became.

"How did she come to be here?"

"No one's very sure." Ameline slipped her fingers between his, letting him take comfort in her presence. "She just showed up, shaved bald and bleeding, asking to see a grimoire in Empress Celene's library. She didn't come out of the palace for months, and then before anyone knew it she was declared Champion of Val Royeaux. I was in Val Chevin at the time and only heard through news from the court."

"I wish any of that sounded surprising."

"Was she as imposing when you knew her, sire... Alistair? I can't imagine her ever being young."

"That's a little harsh. She's younger than I am." He looked up at her in time to see her turn bright red.

"I'm so sorry, sire, I didn't mean to imply... About you or General Cousland..."

"Relax, Ameline, I'm not going to have you flogged." He squeezed her fingers. "She was a lot of fun. Loved to make fun of people, me especially, but she could take a joke, as well. And sweet. She'd go out of her way to bake cookies for maleficarum if you let her, or Qunari as it turned out. Everything just seemed so funny when she was around, she could find the humour in anything."

"I can barely believe you talk of the same person. The generals describe her only as fierce. They say that when she razed Nevarra City, the siege was so horrific that their statue of the king collapsed, back turned as if he was running from the invaders."

"Maker, was she fierce, too, she hated bullies. We found a cult trying to defile Andraste's ashes, and she.. she..."

Murdered them. Never even gave them a chance to scream. Just like she was doing now, on a larger scale.

Ameline looked at him, wide eyed, waiting for the end of the story. She did have very pretty eyes. Flawed, but real and here and watching him with anything but disgust. Not made of glass or stone. Not witness to any atrocities.

He tugged her closer, sliding his free hand around her waist. "Let's not talk about her anymore."

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth and stepped a little closer, burnished hair shimmering in the morning light. "What would you prefer to talk about?"

Alistair licked his lips, his gaze flicking to her mouth, then back to her eyes. "Nothing."

She balanced on her toes, bringing herself level with him and their lips met. He pulled her flush against him, sinking into the kiss. Ameline's shyness made him want to taste her all the more, and soon she parted her lips, allowing him to slip his tongue into her mouth, open and warm. She was all warmth, gentle curves and strong muscles.

A knock at the door saw them spring apart, panting.

The door creaked open, Bann Teagan leaning into the room. He glanced quickly between the king and the servant.

"Sire, the empress is ready to resume talks."

"I... uh... right. Let's not keep her waiting."

Alistair offered a bright pink Ameline an apologetic nod as he was led back toward the meeting.


	5. The Once And Future

**Chapter 4**

**The Once and Future Whatever**

–

The next three days were merciless. Celene had obviously taken Alistair's independent stance as a challenge for her to take what she could while she could, and the aggression in the meeting room was reaching absurd heights. Even the tiniest details were being defended to the last by every one of Celene's advisors.

It had become stifling in the meeting hall, even when they broke at lunch to avoid the heat of the day. The increasingly large number of people and every growing arguments left little room for comfort of any kind and moods were growing sour.

Cousland, as always, kept her eyes fixed on the table, saying nothing. Alistair hadn't noticed any change until the first time Teagan became aggravated, when there was a beat of silence in the room as everyone waited for her moderating gaze, but she didn't even look up. It was as if she'd truly become a statue, he couldn't name a single movement she made for the entire three days.

Still, this afternoon was quite moderate. Celene had already made all preparations for the presentation of commendations to her generals, a ceremony they would all be attending at the first break in the afternoon.

Zevran whispered in Alistair's ear that the Archdukes were holding an even more fierce debate in their own halls, and reports brought to the empress in the evenings. They did not reconvene after lunch that day, whatever matter they were discussing had reached its conclusion, and Alistair felt decidedly uncomfortable that the matter was being decided while he and his retinue were carefully sequestered elsewhere.

More disturbing was how incredibly congenial everything appeared. Apart from her late night meeting and subsequent intimidation, Celene had made no attempt to bully or confuse them. Bann Teagan and the knights had reported only the most polite and civil treatment. That didn't mean there wasn't another level at work, it just meant that they weren't aware of it yet, and that made it dangerous.

Lady Vivian had, of course, made herself at his disposal at every available opportunity, and it was with increasing firmness that he had to turn her down. She was dogged in whatever mission Celene had given her. He was also acutely aware that Ameline would go missing for hours during the day, no doubt reporting on his habits, his speech and any information he let slip. That was part of her duty and he didn't question it.

"I think that's enough for today, we are due in the cathedral," Celene sighed. The table stood and allowed the empress to pass. Alistair politely offered his arm and she accepted. "I think you will enjoy the ceremony, Alistair. Our weather predictors are reporting that there will be fireflies at the lake tonight, have you ever seen them?"

He led her from the room toward the cathedral. She had changed into her most ceremonious dress over lunch, apologising to the table and citing a busy day for the early change. Alistair's more immediate concern was that he had no idea what fireflies were.

"I haven't."

"They are quite the spectacle, perhaps you will join me for dinner on the lake overhang to view them? The court and the servants take great delight, they love to dance among them."

"I would be honoured."

The two royals led the procession toward the grand cathedral, the same Leliana had gushed over so profusely. It was just as amazing as she'd said, maybe moreso. It could be seen from a distance, arched spires shooting toward the sky, ornate glass windows that reflected and scattered the light, casting spots of colour over the city that could be seen from afar. And of course the sound, constant music and the Chant of Light.

Guards joined them along the route, which Celene insisted on walking, and they couldn't have looked more nervous. It made Alistair wonder just how common assassination attempts were, whenever she was anywhere without four solid walls and only trusted allies in presence,her guards looked as though they might suffer a heart attack at any second. Leliana had once mentioned in passing that Orlesian nobles considered assassination a form of sport, to take a bard into one's court was a battle of wits, the attacker versus defender. None of them seemed to care what it did to their guards' nerves.

They entered the cathedral among a crowd that had gathered to catch a glimpse of royalty, and the Revered Mother curtseyed shortly before whirling the empress away to examine the medals and gifts for her generals.

While she was gone, the doors cracked open again and Ameline scurried in.

"Alistair," she murmured,taking up her position a pace behind him.

"Ameline, thank the Maker you're here. How does this work?"

"Soon the rest of the court will be here, they will fill the cathedral. You will again sit to the left of her majesty, but nothing will be expected of you but applause. Empress Celene will list the casualties of battle, then present the honours and appropriate gifts. The highest honours are presented last."

"What's appropriate?"

"Sometimes a sword or armour, such as High General Cousland's. Lord Generals usually receive expansions to their borders out of the conquered land."

"Where is General Cousland?" It did seem a little tacky to ask that question, but whenever she mysteriously disappeared it boded ill.

"She has to change, the High General must wear black in mourning for the losses, and she is receiving the First Order or Orlais, so she will not be back until the end of the ceremony."

Alistair leaned against his makeshift throne at the end of the cathedral. He eyed with some suspicion a third throne that sat to the right of Celene's. "Is that a big deal?"

"The First Order of Orlais is the highest honour to bestow on a living person. She will receive it for the push over the mountains, where she didn't lose a single man."

"Not a single man?" Alistair squeaked, but his attention was drawn away from her when the doors were cast open and he had to take up his throne and look regal.

As it turned out, that was to be his only activity for the better part of two hours. Ameline wasn't kidding, the moment the last noble took their seat, Celene set about listing the names of every single soldier, noble or common, lost since they presumably last had this ceremony.

Occasionally the interminable list was broken up by a speech or a blessing from the Revered Mother, and the whole thing had an incredible sense of tradition. Incense was swung, prayers recited, hymns sung at appropriate intervals. Celene wore her crown instead of the pearl diadem she usually favoured. Alistair was sure it would have been quite touching if he'd understood a word of it.

The number of dead was almost unbelievable. Alistair couldn't tell how many battles they had been lost over, but it seemed they had lost more men than he had currently living. As much deference as he wanted to show the fallen, it was hard to keep up the solemnity after a while, and he wasn't the only one feeling the strain. Celene's voice gradually became more hoarse and more than one noble looked to be nodding off by the time the list finally came to a close.

There was a great sense of relief in the room, like a collective breath could stop being held. The awards were what people came to see.

The empress gave a long, zealous speech in Orlesian which Ameline mercifully didn't translate, but it seemed to get the desired reaction out of the crowds. These people were proud of their generals, it apparently didn't matter to them who was from where, so long as they fought for Orlais and fought well.

"Prince General Sascha Ash-Tal of Halamshiral." The first name was announced, a barbarian prince making his way slowly down the aisle to the applause of the people. Celene presented him with a number of awards borne on blue velvet pillows. A medal pinned to his chest, a second sash draped over the first, and a scroll that Alistair only imagined contained the documents for an increase in his territory. Ameline provided hushed commentary. "He sacrificed his brother to save his troops, routing the Anders into the main force for the final victory."

"High Sorceress Isabeau." The golden clad sorceress swept into the cathedral. "She led a force of fifty mages to enchant the leaders of Weisshaupt, forcing them to surrender without bloodshed, saved many lives."

Alistair's eyes drifted to the gifts that remained to be presented. Among them was a golden circlet, which seemed a bit extravagant even for such a high honour.

"Champion General Allendieu of Ghislain." Another faceless chevalier, a muted gold in the strange lights of the cathedral. "At the siege of Nordbotten he used a unique rolling log invention to destroy most of their forces before the gates even opened."

The cathedral doors opened a final time, and Alistair took in what he was seeing. He'd never seen her in anything but armour before, in various states of undress. She wore a dress of the Ferelden style, black silk that hung from her shoulders and spilled down her hips, a plunging neckline that he had to admit would have looked devestatingly beautiful if she had any of her old substance. The same blue sash she'd worn to the banquet was draped over her shoulder and hip. Even her hair was done, unbraided and woven into some elaborate, womanly knot at the nape of her neck and tangled in flowers.

Maybe she was beautiful, maybe ghastly. Out of her armour she looked small, the joints of her elbows and wrists were desperately thin, her collarbone stuck out in jarring relief.

"Champion General of Val Royeaux, High General Cousland of Orlais."

Ameline didn't elaborate on her many victories and feats, instead reciting Celene's speech as it came.

"Of all the heroes in our forces, one proves herself time and time again. The first lady champion who was not born to the title and the only Fereldan in our ranks, General Cousland came into the Orlesian military under great suspicion. These suspicions have been wiped away under her sword and arrow, her every word loyal, her every action noble, and her very presence the pride of the Orlesian army. Once the Anderfels have fallen in their entirety, we shall owe two new countries of Orlais' greater glory to this one lady."

This speech didn't bode well. It almost sounded like Celene was making her a citizen, although she must already be one.

"Kneel, General Cousland." The general did as instructed and Celene placed a hand on her forehead. "Induction into the First Order of Orlais is what we come here to celebrate, an award presented once in a generation, and yet it does not encompass our gratitude to you, General, our debt to you."

Suddenly everything clicked together in Alistair's head. The meetings of the Archdukes weren't being held while he was locked up, they were being held while _she_ was locked up. The third throne. That was no circlet, it was a crown.

"Kneel, High General Cousland of Orlais, and arise..." Celene took the offered crown and settled it on Cousland's head. "Queen Cousland of Nevarra."

Cousland's eyes snapped open, her shoulders trembled. Horrified, she stood. Casting desperate eyes at Celene she curtseyed low and held out her hands to receive her chalice and sceptre. It was clear that she had no more idea this would happen than Alistair.

"I will ask you to recite the oath of allegiance to Orlais."

The oath to Orlais, something she would never have been asked to take before. The oath that would bind her to the empire, all thoughts of leaving forever banished. Alistair thought he was going to be sick.

The newly crowned queen spoke in her native tongue, whether through ceremony or, and it seemed far more likely to Alistair, because her shock was so great she had momentarily forgotten to speak Orlesian.

"I swear fealty, on behalf of Nevarra and her people, to the Orlesian empire and her Empress. I swear faith to the Chant of Light, may my hands be guided by the Maker to do His work. I swear purity in the name of Andraste, the Bride, and reject corruption, greed and sin. Only the Maker may compel me otherwise, and the Maker is in the Chantry, His emissaries, and the Empress, His chosen."

What a joke. She didn't even believe in the Maker.

The new queen looked like she might shake apart. No longer was she the fearless general, terror of nations. She looked like a scared little girl, in way over her head. The crown was too big, despite fitting perfectly on her head.

Alistair found himself unable to look away from her face. Her mask of horror was so open, completely unrestrained, and he couldn't help but wonder how often she disguised that look. Was this how she felt when she saw the Archdemon? When she learned how it was killed? Maybe this was the look she wanted to wear when she saw the dead rising around Redcliffe, or when she found Genetivi broken on the floor, but she had kept her face impassive, her words and hands steady for the sake of everyone who depended on her.

It didn't take her long to set her mouth in a firm line, unfurrow her brow and take on an air of indifference, but her eyes were no longer made from stone. They shone with fear, endless like the ocean, living like he remembered them. Celene had caught her, bound the woman to her will without consent or scruples. It terrified Alistair how easily it was done, not a sign of the extraordinary until the jaws of her trap snapped shut. A warrior undone, a queen conquered. The empress was no flower with thorns, she was a lion who wore flowers in her mane. Cousland was just another victim.

But she would make an amazing queen.

The cathedral emptied without Alistair noticing. His Pup's eyes never changed, never wavered, absolutely refused to look at him. She was far away, just masquerading as still present in the cathedral. She was trying to cope with what had just happened.

_She had no injuries. She was not crying or stricken. She simply... fell and did not get back up._

There was no reason for him to have this anxiety, a single incident after all she'd seen did not mean she was weak, it didn't mean she was going to fall apart at the drop of a hat. It didn't mean that terror in her eyes would get the better of her.

"Will you accompany me, Alistair?" Celene was speaking, and he was forced to look at her.

"I... uh... I..." His brain shorted out for a moment, and he closed his mouth to collect himself. "I'd like to speak a few words with the new queen, if you don't mind."

"Of course." She inclined her head and walked away.

He was suddenly acutely aware that the cathedral was all but empty. Cousland sat in her throne, still lost to the world, and he'd been lost with her for uncountable minutes. No one stopped to congratulate her, possibly because they might have been run through on the spot if they tried. Which wasn't a concern to take lightly.

Alistair knelt in front of her, putting himself in her line of vision. Her eyes focussed, bewildered.

"I wanted to see if you were alright."

_She had no injuries. She was not crying or stricken_

"Why would she do this to me?" The words came out as a strangled whisper, but they were comforting. This wasn't the catatonia Zevran had described.

"You're going to make a great queen, you always knew how to lead. Not like me, and even I'm doing alright at it. Everyone's still alive and has pants."

Her hand suddenly grasped his wrist, painfully tight. Her eyes implored him. "They want me to lead an entire country. Everything I touch, I _destroy_."

The moment of brutal honesty hit something deep inside him. Freeze and shatter, her favourite move. True or not, she believed what she said without an iota of reservation.

"That's not true. It's just not. You've done so much for everyone. You're going to make a great queen."

"Nobody told me..." she whimpered. "I knew I'd have to destroy to save, I knew I'd have to make decisions that no one should have to make, I did. But nobody told me I might live through it. Nobody told me I'd have to keep going. Nobody told me I might end up the Queen of fucking Nevarra."

"No," Alistair said. "That's... that's not how it happened. You didn't make those decisions alone, you... you wanted to survive. You convinced me to... Morrigan..."

"A failsafe," she mumbled, mostly to herself. "I wasn't ever going to make that strike. It had to be done, everything I did had to be done by somebody. One person for all of Ferelden, that's not a bad trade."

"What do you mean, you weren't going to make that strike?"

Her eyes met his. "Was I?"

It hit him in the chest, the realisation. No, she wasn't going to deal the final blow on the Archdemon. It would have been Riordan if he hadn't died, and when it came down to the both of them Alistair would never have let her deal the blow, he would have sacrificed himself. She hadn't asked him to perform the ritual to save herself. She'd done it to save him.

She stood suddenly, nearly knocking him over as she blew past him, almost racing for the exit. He managed to snag her wrist, the feeling of cool skin undermined by the bone he could feel in definition, the way two fingers could catch and break her. He couldn't let her leave like this.

"Don't go."

"Please release me, sire."

"No, no, you don't get to be all formal again. I won't let you, you need to talk to me."

"This isn't any of your business," she hissed.

"Like hell it isn't. I care for you, that makes it my business."

The queen twisted out of his grasp and rounded on him. He had forgotten how strong she was, even whisper thin. "Care for me? Stop this. Stop this farce, it insults us both."

"You really think I don't care about you? I won't say I don't, I won't lie."

"When will you admit that what we had was just a dalliance? Admit it to yourself if not me. Blinding yourself to your own decisions is foolish, and despite what people say, I do not think you a fool."

"A dalliance? How can you even say that?"

"You dare deny it right to my face?" She was so angry, practically boiling over with cold fury. Normally he would think twice about enraging a beserker, but he couldn't believe what he was hearing. And frankly anything that broke her stone mask, even anger, was worth it.

"You meant everything to me, you know I didn't leave through not loving you."

"You left because I was inconvenient."

It felt like she had slapped him. "You... don't really believe that, do you?"

She refused to meet his eyes, shifting her weight. "You can declare your love for me to the ages, that doesn't make it so, words are just words. If I've learned one thing since leaving Denerim it's that if things don't add up after the fact, chances are they never did in the first place. You have no great love for the Theiren bloodline beyond respect for your king, no shortage of good men to take the throne if you don't produce an heir. Not to mention that even after the speech you gave me, I see no wife, no children. Words are weak, your actions talk for you."

"You think I lied to you." It wasn't a question.

"No, I..." Her face softened, she looked exhausted. "I think you lie to yourself."

"I know how I feel. You said it yourself, I would die to preserve you."

"Dying for something is a lot easier than living for it. You deny my assertions but you can't deny facts. If you still want to challenge me, then answer me one question first."

"Anything. There's nothing you can ask me that will change the fact that I never saw you as a... as a... dalliance, or a tryst or anything short of the woman I wanted to be with always."

"What physically changes about a person after the Joining?"

Alistair's mind shot backwards five years. Laughing by the campfire about the increase in appetite, telling stories and poking fun at her for basically inhaling her dinner. No mention that she couldn't have children. He hadn't lied to her, it had just seemed like a weird thing to bring up, particularly since he had just started to care for her as more than a friend. He didn't want it to be an issue, not then, not for as long as he could put it off.

"That's not fair."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. People do it all the time, not every relationship ends in a wedding and half a dozen children underfoot. But please don't pretend that you weren't stopping us from getting too serious." There was no malice in her voice, she was as gentle with him as she'd ever been. "There were a number of things that were curiously omitted, and when it came time to end it, it ended. That's not a love for the ages. That's a fling."

Alistair had no rebuttal.

"Is that how you feel?"

A wan smile spread across her face and she turned away from him, walking toward the exit at a steady pace. "When has that ever mattered?"

He watched her leave, wishing he had an answer to that. Where there was once his scruffy-haired, rosey-cheeked, armour-clad pup, there was now a graceful silken queen, statuesque silhouetted against the setting sun, and he couldn't think of a single solid argument as to why that change shouldn't have taken place. Never once, in five years, had he questioned how he felt about her, and maybe it was her Orlesian training that made that seem like an error in judgement. She certainly seemed to think it was. A decision never questioned was a decision of questionable wisdom.

Had he really fooled himself all these years, thinking it was more than it was? There were still nights when the only thing that would get him to sleep was to imagine her in his arms. Maybe she was right, maybe that was just a stubborn refusal to move on from the past, but that wasn't what it felt like. It felt like part of him was missing.

The sun was almost set outside, and he realised he had promised to join Celene for dinner on the overhang. He couldn't think of a single thing he wanted less than the exchange false pleasantries with the Empress.

But duty called, and if this afternoon was following one theme, that was it.

Guards escorted him back to the palace. The evening felt cold, despite the summer air. His mind was so wrapped up back in the cathedral that he barely noticed the commotion in the palace. People were aflutter, noble and common alike, in simple summer dress. There was definitely something going on, but he ignored it. Whatever it was he didn't care.

Celene was already waiting on the overhang, seated as she had been when he first came up three nights ago.

"Good evening, Celene," he greeted, taking up the seat next to her.

"I am so glad you decided to join me, Alistair. Today has been so busy, I was afraid you would be too tired, and this is not a sight to miss."

The king looked out over the lake, there didn't seem to be anything there that he hadn't seen before, except for the dozens of people milling around the pavilion. Soft string music permeated the evening air, several couples danced by the lake, and it looked entirely more pleasant at ground level than up with the empress.

"I wouldn't turn down your invitation. Orlais is too full of surprises to miss one."

Celene chuckled amiably. "I am sure after so many years here the novelty has worn off a little, but this is worth it, even after so long a day. You must be pleased to see your old friend ascend to the throne."

"I am," he replied, unsure if he was lying. "She deserves it."

"That she does. Had I a higher honour to bestow upon her, she would have that, as well. She will make an exceptional queen. The Nevarres are already terrified of her, the siege of Nevarra City was the most brutal victory we have seen in centuries. Ah, and the night's events begin."

Alistair looked out over the lake, seeing nothing for a long beat, until he realised that some of the stars in the sky were moving. Slowly more and more glowing specks appeared, to the general applause of the people amassed below. The music stopped while the musicians looked up in wonder. Of course. Fireflies.

"That's..."

"Magic." Celene beamed.

Magic, indeed. The air glowed, the swarm moving around the lake like a thousand tiny lanterns. The dancers spun through them, the musicians giving the whole area a whimsical, surreal feeling. It was beautiful to watch from above, but he still felt that it would have been amazing from the ground.

"Ah, here is the guest of honour herself."

Another three figures emerged from the palace, led by the new queen, the circlet still perched on her head. The other two were Lady Generals, also looking slightly out of place in summery dresses, and they practically bounced their way to the pavilion, the sombre queen giving them smiles of gentle tolerance. He should have been down there with her, but now that seemed impossible.

Alistair scowled when a large figure loped toward her. Cedric. The boy was everywhere, it was like a magic trick. He kissed her hand and bowed dramatically. Cousland's face lit up in a grin that she quickly smothered. Why couldn't he get her to smile anymore?

"Watch how she refuses him," Celene said. "She will never dance with him when there are others around."

It was true, she took a step back from Cedric. Alistair's momentary satisfaction was completely annulled when Cedric offered her a flower and she took it, holding the bloom to her nose happily as she swayed away with her friends.

"She'll accept later, when people are gone," he said, understanding.

"Mm," the empress hummed. "He will make a very fine king, I think. He's of common birth, but she will make up for that. He's handsome and she's brilliant, a perfect match."

"Do you think they love each other?"

"I do not know. Certainly Cedric has endless patience with her. If she were only easier to read, sometimes I think she would not notice if he disappeared, other days she seems to to be more attached to him than any other in the city. I do not think she will turn him down when for asks for her hand."

"There's a lot of speculation," he said non-committally.

Queen Cousland drifted through the crowds, fireflies circling her, still thumbing the papery white flower. People stopped her to offer bows or kiss her hand. She looked every bit the queen, even in her simple black dress, that crown looked so perfect on her. A lot like the crown in his own vaults, reserved for the Queen of Ferelden.

Celene hadn't been wrong about the fireflies, though. They were enough to keep his mind off everything. They lit up the night sky, creating whirlwinds against the lake, thousands of glowing specks that looked like fairy dust sprinkled across the merry makers. All their formality seemed forgotten in this glowing wonderland, each a prince or princess in the pavilion. It was hard not to be enchanted while the stars were falling.

Alistair and Celene talked and ate, discussing all manner of things in halting, muted tones as each gust of wind caught the tiny lights in a new dance, reflected in the lake. They talked of the crown, of Nevarra's future, of fireflies and nobles dancing. Celene was studiously inconsequential, steering the conversation away from anything that sounded too serious, her words writing out a golden future underneath the fireflies. Nevarra was already awaiting the 'homecoming' of their queen, word had been sent to them long before the impromptu coronation.

The night slipped away in a lull of conversation, wine and music. Dancers floated back inside one by one as the night wore on, some paired off and others moving in gaggles, and eventually Alistair had to excuse himself, tired from too much wine.

His balcony had a similar view, just lower to the ground. He should really have stayed inside, it was a weak excuse to say that he wanted to watch the fireflies, but one he made to himself nonetheless. It was easy to talk himself into things after a few wines, still tasting sweet on his lips. Too easy to pretend he wanted to see the stars when there was a waifish figure cast white under the night, sitting by the lake with a flower in her hand.

Their first kiss had been in the Deep Roads. Anxious and heated and probably tainted by the grime on their skin. They'd seen many sights on their journey around Ferelden, some beautiful, some heinous, and he thought the best they'd ever managed was in the privacy of her tent, away from prying eyes and safe enough from danger to relax for a few minutes.

Cedric approached her and she smiled, radiant, regal. He offered his hand and this time she took it, glancing around for voyeurs, ironically missing the only person watching them. He was close enough to see the violets in her hair, the flowers attracting the glowing bugs. Stars fluttered in the air around them as Cedric twirled her, black silk curling around her knees. She looked young again.

Alistair first told her he loved her outside Denerim, his heart in his throat. He'd seen her struggling, seen her being weighed down by the enormity of their task, and he'd held her, whispering into her ear that things would turn out for them, trying to block out the world for her, if only for a moment. They had stood on their battlefield, Darkspawn corpses strewn across the ground, and he'd wanted so badly for it to just go away.

Cedric lifted her off her feet, light catching on her crown, surrounded by roses, dancing on a mosaic floor. Her laughter echoed around the gardens, light and free. The enormous man pulled her close, enveloping her, tracing his fingers down her back. They swayed among the stars. Young love, both so content in each others' arms that the world around them barely existed.

Alistair had told her that they couldn't be together, his chest squeezing painfully, determined to keep his breathing steady. She'd looked lost, words spilling from her mouth as her lower lip trembled. He didn't think she really knew what she was saying, he knew there'd be more questions later, and he could only be lucky enough for her to ask them instead of drawing her own conclusions. She asked if it was just sex and he didn't have the right words to tell her how much more it was to him.

Cedric ran his fingers through her bound hair, a few strands falling free. He tilted her face up, toward him. The fireflies danced a whirlwind around them, their image reflected in the lake, the scent of white paper flowers was carried through them on the wind. He brought her parted lips to his in a perfect kiss.

Alistair closed his eyes.

_Just a dalliance._

"Sire?"

He jumped and spun around, relaxing as he saw Ameline slip into the room. She had been dancing with the others, he guessed, as she wore a blue dress that swayed around her knees, her hair pulled atop her head. He decided that he liked her in blue.

"Alistair, are you well? You're looking pale. Is it the heat again?"

She reached up to check his forehead and he caught her wrist, pulling her to him.

_Just a dalliance._

Ameline squeaked in surprise, then leaned into him. Their mouths met, hot and tasting of wine. He ran a hand through her short hair, releasing it from its bonds.

_People do it all the time, not every relationship ends in a wedding and half a dozen children underfoot._

All these years, dreaming of her. Foolishness. He buried his hands in ebony hair, felt long fingers trace lines up his ribs and round hips pull into his.

_You left because I was inconvenient._

There were no Darkspawn, no distractions, no soldiers camped just feet away. He urged her backwards, through silk drapes and over intricate rugs, their hands seeking purchase on the carved furniture.

_Words are weak, your actions talk for you._

He lowered her down to the bed, spread her out on silk sheets. No more regrets.


	6. Hell Hath No Fury

**Chapter 5**

**Hell Hath No Fury Like A Something**

–

Eighteen days.

It took eighteen days of arguing and bargaining, of sitting in a sweltering hall with fifteen other people, of waking at dawn and calling an impasse by lunch and then reconvening when one side had a stroke of inspiration or generosity. But it was done.

The damn peace treaty was prepared.

Alistair had sweated out every one of those days, refusing to let a single moment of the negotiations go without his mediation. Bann Teagan had to be ordered from the room twice. Celene had three times left, citing over heating and stonewalling.

It had been gruelling down to the smallest detail. Zevran had disappeared three days ago, letting Alistair know that he was onto something and not coming back. Queen Cousland had quit the negotiations altogether, only seen around the palace carrying masses of books on Nevarre back to her estate across the way. Two knights had been taken in with heatstroke, although that might have been a position of envy, as they were allowed to leave to be tended to by pretty girls who had caught their eye.

Each day slid into the next for Alistair. Watching the list of finalised details grow at an agonising pace. Catching a glimpse of Cousland, a new detail each day as she became a queen, her hair done in Nevarre style, laquered nails glued to her fingers, pierced ears. Eating strange foods while looking out over the lake. Hearing refined snickers behind feather fans as the gossip continued. Making love to Ameline at night, the only part of his day he looked forward to. They had stayed almost a week longer than he had intended to.

But it was done, and worth every minute.

Now they needed to stay just one more night for the court scribes to write up the official treaty, the signing ceremony would take place the next day at noon. Alistair lay down on his bed, sighing heavily. He couldn't wait to get on the road, this entire visit had been draining in every possible way.

Ameline hadn't visited him that morning, or at lunch. The servant sent in her place had no explanation to give him. He guessed she was visiting her father, who was due to leave the city that day, but it was still unlike her not to send a message.

A knock at the door raised his hopes, only to dash them as one of Celene's handmaidens requested his immediate presence in the empress' office. He'd seen enough offices to last him a lifetime. In fact he was considering having his office in Denerim entirely removed in favour of a swimming pool, that would make palace life much more bearable, and it would give him a place to drown himself if anyone ever mentioned the word 'treaty' to him again.

He followed the lady downstairs and raised an eyebrow when she opened the door and made no move to follow him inside. In fact, no one else was there.

Celene sat on a chaise, hands folded, reams of white silk spilling around her. She could not have looked more like an empress, adorned as she was with royal jewels and feathered hair. Alistair had plenty of experience with this sort of meeting. When trying to break bad news, people always tried to look their most professional. His heart thumped in his throat.

"Celene."

"Alistair, please sit."

He did as instructed. "This is looking very ominous, I'm in trouble, aren't I? Or did Teagan finally give himself an aneurysm?"

"This is no laughing matter, Alistair. Something has come to my attention that I would like your point of view on." Her face was as cold as stone. He was in big trouble. Something inside him screamed at him to just make a run for it, whatever was happening here, it was not one monarch asking for another's opinion. He had the terrible feeling that he was about to find out what had been missing the past three weeks among her courtesy and fine hostessing.

"What would that be, or do I have to guess?"

"Ameline is with child."

The blood drained from his face.

Celene barely hid her triumph.

The jaws of the trap snapped shut.

"What?"

"She claims the child is yours and I believe her, she has had no contact with other men for the duration of your stay."

He couldn't believe her, shamelessly acting as if this was all Ameline. Everything fell into place. He had been watching Vivian, thinking her to be an attempt at seduction. While the voluptuous blonde commoner had been following him around, he didn't even think of the shy noblewoman as any ploy by Celene to taint his honour.

The shy noblewoman who happened to look just like his first love.

"You planned this," he gasped. He was going to be a father. He could either marry her, putting an Orlesian of no name on the throne of Ferelden, practically kissing the empire's toes, or abandon her, giving them a reason not to sign the treaty.

"My guests have many proclivities, Alistair. The fact that yours lie in naïve young girls is not my concern, but if you wish to impregnate a woman, you should keep to commoners." She was so calm. She knew she had him.

He was going to be a father. A husband and a father. The two things he'd always sworn he'd take seriously were now just a political ploy by a snake that made Anora look honest. He couldn't let this happen.

"You want me to marry her."

"It is only your duty to claim her and the child."

There were only two reasons why any Fereldan king would marry a low noblewoman of Orlais. A love match or political pressure. Either way it was bringing them into the Orlesian fold, a few short steps from fealty, something a half-Orlesian heir might have no problem with.

"And if I don't?"

"We have made this treaty with an honourable nation. If you would insult us by leaving Lord General Gardieu's daughter in such a state, perhaps you are not as honourable as we thought. But perhaps it simply runs in the blood. If I remember correctly, your father never claimed you."

Alistair bit back a less-than-regal retort.

He closed his eyes, trying to sort through everything in his head. A father, a husband, a king, a king under Celene. A king under Ameline. Queen Consort Ameline Theirin. King Consort Cedric Ouberman.

Alistair shot to his feet, pain striking throughout his chest. "You are a snake, Celene, and I will never see you rule over Ferelden."

"Then shall I take it that the signing ceremony should be cancelled?"

Alistair didn't wait to see the smug look on her face. He strode from the office, nearly toppling the lady-in-waiting who was eavesdropping outside the door. The world seemed to spin. The lady rushed off and he knew it was too late to stop the news spreading.

Pregnant. Ameline. For all the good he had thought about her the past three weeks, the idea made him sick. Her nose was too long, her chin too short. She knew nothing of him, of the life he'd led. Knew nothing of betrayal or horror. She'd never offered to sacrifice her life for Ferelden, never made a deal with the devil to keep him alive.

He couldn't go back to his rooms, not now. She might be there, might find him. He wasn't ready to face this. There had to be another option, had to be some way to appease Celene without putting her on his throne. He couldn't have failed his country so entirely through nothing more than seeking comfort from heartbreak.

Alistair's feet led him, nearly of their own accord, out of the palace and across the way. He found himself staring at the door to an estate, until recently the estate of the Champion of Val Royeaux, now waiting to be vacated by the Queen of Nevarra.

He couldn't do this, he couldn't run to her. This wasn't her mess, it wasn't hers to bear or even hear.

Ever since the day he'd met her, whenever trouble came up he'd turn to her, ask her what to do. She hadn't had a moment's peace with him in all their travels. Couldn't he deal with this one mess on his own?

He wanted the answer to be yes. He wanted to believe that any other time, any other place, any other trouble, the answer might have been yes. Did she even know Ameline? She commanded her father, she must have some idea of his daughters. She attended the empress, she must have some idea of her company. If he didn't tell her, who would? Would she hear it from gossip at court? From Cedric?

Oh, Maker, Cedric. What if he knocked on the door and Cedric was there? He had business with her, he was royalty and now so was she, and that was the most transparent excuse he'd ever dreamed up. This was inappropriate. It was wrong. He had to turn away right now.

The door in front of him opened and Alistair started.

She looked out at him with questioning eyes. "Why have you been standing out here for half an hour?"

Half an hour? Maker, he was a mess, he would have put it down to a couple of minutes at most.

"I... I..."

She rolled her eyes. "Come in."

He followed her inside, running through the million possibilities of what he could say in his head. Of course, he should have known that he could count on her to distract him from even the most dire of situations.

She led him through the foyer and into the main hall, and all thoughts left his head. The sight before him begged for explanation. She had apparently moved every other room in the manor into this one. One corner held a lounge, another her desk and another her bed, every wall covered in books. And he guessed the books that completely half the tables and desks were a new addition, her emergency study of Nevarra.

"Uh..."

"This home is too big." She stacked aside books to let them sit. "I hear congratulations are in order."

He stopped dead in his musings. "You know?"

"I'm surprised you didn't." She gave him a withering glance, still stacking books. "I've never seen Celene put on such a show for any diplomat."

He didn't miss her casual tone. The trap was sprung, the outcome of his visit decided, all pretence dropped. He grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to face him.

"How long did you know what Celene was planning?"

"Your innocence is so sweet, sire, but your naïvety is infuriating. Every second since you walked into this city has been a set up. No meeting, no conversation, no coincidence has been unplanned. You should have seen this."

A sinking realisation hit him. "She has Zevran, doesn't she?"

"Don't worry over him, he's in one of the staterooms being pampered by the Ladies Association until the treaty is signed. He found out that Cedric was poisoning the Mabari."

"He was... what?"

"But we should be pragmatic, if you want to continue your bloodline, Ameline is a good choice. She could produce an heir within the year, and young enough for many more years for others."

"More like within the summer."

She lit up a cigarette, the holder clicking against nails painted with Nevarre flowers, and let smoke curl out of her mouth. "Tell me you don't really think she's pregnant."

"Wait. She's not?" Alistair shook his head and let her go, allowing her to slink across the room, unwilling to look at him. "Could you just start from the beginning?"

"Maker, you really have no idea how much trouble you have caused Celene. She invited you when she knew the generals would be returning, making sure that you saw how I had become part of this society, how different I am now than I was last time you saw me. She poisoned the Mabari, making sure that you and I would both be in the kennels at the same time, knowing that you would catch Cedric and I together. She gave you a servant who looks just like me, or like I did before I became a Grey Warden. In fact, against my advice, she staked the entire plan on the idea that you still had feelings for me. And you... you _fell for it_. Hook, line and sinker. I can't believe you fell for it. Every coincidence, every time she thrust us together, made me seem hollow and cruel, and you just... just..."

Her fingers curled around the cigarette, digging into her palms as her frustration mounted. Alistair couldn't look at the pain on her face. This was all his fault, but she'd known all along and hadn't even tried to warn him.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought you could handle this on your own. I thought you were... I told Celene, I told her that you didn't love me. I told her everything I told you, that all we had was a tryst in our younger years, there was no way... I didn't think for a second..." She squeezed her eyes closed. "Ameline isn't pregnant, but you have no physicians or mages to prove that. So you can either marry her, abandon her and go to war, or challenge her honour, and Celene will ask me to champion her."

"No swordbreakers."

He couldn't fight her. He couldn't win, if he could through skill his heart wouldn't let him. Maybe it would be better to challenge her and lose, let Eamon take the throne. When Ameline was found to be not pregnant, Orlais would have no claim on Ferelden, and Eamon's wife had already renounced Orlais, it would leave them with nothing.

She laughed, wry. "Some might say that being asked to sacrifice yourself for country should be a once in a lifetime request. This could be much worse. Ameline is young, she is noble, she will have many children. With the right oaths and renouncement she could be a very suitable wife. That was what you wanted."

Alistair reached out to her, lying his palm flat across her back, wishing her hauberk away so that he could feel her skin.

He couldn't do this, he couldn't pretend that he was alright with taking that girl as his wife, not on a good day, let alone when the scent of orchids and steel were clouding his judgement. She let out a long breath of smoke, leaning back into his touch. He stepped closer to her, breathing in her scent.

"That was never what I wanted."

"You had a choice, it's led you here."

He hissed out a breath, trying to find the words to explain to her everything he wanted to say. He had the feeling she already knew. "Why do you hate yourself?"

She turned around, so close he could feel her heat. Beautiful grey eyes, eyes that haunted him dreams, looked so alive, catching his breath, stealing him away. "If you strip a dog of his meals, no matter how gentle his nature, he will eventually kill to eat, and then you must put him down."

"I don't understand."

"I'm a tyrant and a traitor. I knew I would be from the moment we set out to gather an army. And I've outlived my purpose."

"You...no. Don't say that, don't even think it!" He grabbed her wrists, forcing her to face him and she didn't struggle. "You're a hero."

"A hero?" she scoffed. "The same hero that led all of Ferelden down the path of ruin to satisfy my needs?"

"That Blight would have killed us all."

"And you needed a dragon to fight a dragon. I hold no grudge."

"You have a good heart, I know everything didn't turn out like we planned, I know that we couldn't save people from themselves. That wasn't your fault."

"No, no. You have it wrong. Do you know what a good person does? They don't impose their own will on others. They don't force people into submission. They don't cut through complex issues with a sword, they don't force peace by blood."

Alistair's mouth was dry. He searched her face for any sign that she didn't believe what she was saying. He'd held her in his mind as the one standard to live up to, someone who wasn't afraid to make a hard decision and was strong enough to make it right, no matter what it cost her.

"People fought their petty issues when they should have been fighting the Blight. If it wasn't for you they'd all be dead."

"How many mages?" she demanded. "How many werewolves? How many dwarves fell under my sword because I didn't have the time for them? Not killed by a mindless, tainted beast. Killed by a 'good-hearted' woman in the king's service. Ferelden was beset by a beast, and you can only fight a monster with a monster."

"Look at me. Just... look at me."

He grabbed a handful of her hair, forcing her to tilt her head back, meet his eye. He was furious. With her, with himself, with anyone who had let her get this way. And he knew he couldn't completely exclude himself from that.

"Are you going to try to tell me that it's all okay? That the things I did didn't matter?"

"I going to tell you that I'm sorry. We were both forced into the worst situation, and I know what you mean when you say you knew from the start, because I knew as well. I knew as soon as you announced that I would be king that what I wanted, no matter how badly, it wouldn't matter anymore. And now I'm learning that all over again. Celene was right. You're the only one in all Thedas who could let me forget that, who could make me believe there might be a shred of what I want for myself within my reach."

"You're about to do something foolish, aren't you?" she whispered.

"I am," he agreed, and leaned toward her.

The moment their lips touched a floodgate broke. He parted her lips, tasting her deeply, his hands bringing her flush against him. She pushed back against him and his back hit a bookcase, scattering texts across the floor. The kiss was hot and wet, no hesitance, just five years of repression breaking free at once.

They stumbled, trying to bring each other close. An unrehearsed dance, seeking pressure, the edge of the desk, the bookcases, the sofas. She whimpered into his mouth, he could feel her warmth through his armour. He broke the kiss to toss aside his gloves and groaned when he felt the skin of her neck under his palms. She was tearing at the straps to his armour, shaking fingers making more work. He grabbed her behind, lifting her against his mouth more closely and feeling a frantic moan reverberate through her. One of the leather straps on his pauldrons snapped, and the plate fell to the ground with a crash.

The chainmail against his cuirass scraped infuriatingly. He ran his hand up her side and brushed against her breast through the metal. She arched into his touch with a cry, hands stilling for a split second before resuming their scrabbling. They paused as he pulled her hauberk over her head, suddenly freeing her upper body to his touch. The jarring angle of her waist and hip, her collarbone and breasts, the pulse point under her neck.

His hands stilled for a moment, even in his guessing he hadn't imagined how badly her body had deteriorated. He pulled her to him with a renewed vigour, pressing kisses on each bone that too sharply protruded, ever muscle too well defined, as if by force of will alone he could bring her back to health.

More armour clattered the the ground, until finally he stepped back half an inch to let her take away his cuirass and he could crush her to him, only a tantalisingly thin layer of fabric between them. Their mouths sought each other out, still playing their furious game, giving and taking, trying to mimic what they so badly needed to do, forcing back what they so badly needed to forget.

She slid his cloth shirt over his head and pressed an open kiss against his neck, forcing a groan from his throat. Her kisses trailed lower, each one leaving a searing mark against his skin, until she was on her knees.

The armour on his legs slowly loosened while her mouth worked at the crease of his hip. His fingers wound through her hair, his legs seemed to be failing him and he leaned back against the desk, wondering if heaven felt like this. He didn't let her undress him any further, instead pulling her up by her hands and tugging her shirt over her head before lifting her onto the desk.

She lay back, panting desperately while he tossed her boots to the ground and rolled her pants down her legs, reverently following his hands with his mouth. He couldn't wait a single second longer, watching her lie there, her eyes wide and mouth parted, a look of dreadful anticipation. With one hand he loosened his pants, the other sliding two fingers into her, making sure she was ready for him. Her back arched violently and she cried out. She was so ready, like she had been waiting for this every second since they last made love.

Alistair pushed into her and gasped. He was a young man again, first learning her body, unprepared for how impossibly good it felt to be inside her. She let out a shuddering moan and dug her heels into the small of his back, giving herself to him, and the knowledge that it felt just as good for her was almost the better sensation.

He didn't give her time to get used to him, he couldn't, he thrust into her again. One of his hands pinned hers above her head, his elbow supporting his weight, while the other grasped her hip, holding her down, keeping her still so he could take her how he needed to.

"Oh, Pup," he gasped against her neck. "I'd forgotten."

He set a rhythm, slow and rough, each painfully slow thrust causing them both to gasp. His brain was screaming at him that this wasn't right, that it wasn't respectful to himself or to her, but it was completely overwhelmed by the desperate need for the twisting of his insides to stopped. Five years of agony, he needed this to be over. He thrust into her again and again, her increasingly frantic whimpers a drug he couldn't get enough of.

She was turned on by this, he could tell. Her skin was burning, her breasts swollen, every inch of her shook as she welcomed him in deeply. Her legs wrapped around his hips, giving him permission to have her exactly how he wanted. Fake fingernails tore at his back, he could feel her hips rolling, wanting to meet him, but he held her down, her frustration causing every muscle to clench and dragging a groan from him. Her body was going to drag his release from him, unwilling, he could feel it building, so powerful that his movements became stuttering and disjointed.

"Say my name," he whispered hoarsely. "I want to hear it."

"Alistair," she begged, her keening reaching a fever pitch. "Alistair, please."

He lowered his mouth to her skin, sucking at her neck and collarbone, finally ghosting his lips over her breast, her body stricken beneath him. She was close. Their tempo quickened, leaving her sobbing his name, over and over, like a prayer.

Finally she screamed his name to the ceiling, her body desperately trying to rise off the desk but pinned in place, she came undone around him, sobbing and whimpering. He refused to let himself go. The minute he came, this would be over, reality would crash down around them. So he held on, kept going, the twisting inside his chest cutting off his breathing. Together they rode out her tremors, clinging to each other.

Every time he thrust into her she whimpered, aftershocks flooding her body. He held onto every sound she made, every inch of skin he caressed, the way she took him in, how good it felt to be inside her. All these things he knew he wouldn't be experiencing again.

But he couldn't hold out any more. With a hoarse shout he let go, letting his weight fall on her. He closed his eyes, feeling her heartbeat as five years of pain and confusion and love unrequited flooded out of him and he was once again weary and satisfied in her arms.

Alistair let out a massive breath, feeling like after the longest time he could breathe again. The bands that held his chest tight were gone, replaced by her giving warmth. He looked up at her and she smiled, showing all her teeth. It made his heart swell in his chest, the perfect moment. Her lips were bruised, her cheeks flushed and her hair wild. But it was the goofy grin that made him run his fingers down her cheek, marvelling at her beauty. His Pup was back.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured.

"So are you."

"Beautiful? Not handsome? Roguish? Dashing, maybe?"

"Especially dashing." She laughed and pushed him upwards, forcing him to stand although his knees hadn't quite regrown their bones yet. He didn't let her go, bringing her up to envelop her in his arms, her bare skin against his chest was heaven.

"Well, being a dashing knight in shining armour," he said. "Can I make a request of you?"

He sat against the edge of the desk, allowing her to straddle his knees and pressing his mouth against hers again. Five years of desire couldn't be so easily sated, if anyone tried to take her from her place against him at that moment, he'd rip the man's arms off.

"That depends," she mumbled into his lips. "What does this request entail?"

"You. Eating something."

He punctuated the request by digging all his fingertips into her ribs, causing her to squeal and jump out of his arms.

"That was not fair," she laughed, wrapping her arms over her breasts.

"Now that is funny. The greatest general in all Thedas, ticklish."

She shrieked and backed up as he chased her, his hands seeking out her ribs again. She looked so beautiful, long hair that swayed and scattered the only thing covering her pale skin as she leapt over a sofa to escape him. Her face looked almost rounded again when she was smiling so widely, and the blushing afterglow leant her some of her colour back, it hit Alistair in the gut as he half-tackled her onto the bed. He never hoped to have so perfect a moment again, let alone today.

This was how he'd always wanted her. Somehow not once in their relationship had he ever managed to get her onto a proper bed. If he could go back in time he'd make the effort, it was worth it. Hair splayed around her, body sinking into the mattress, she was a temptress like he'd never seen.

"I thought you wanted me to get food," she said.

He reluctantly let her up, watching her swaying hips as she left and groaning in satisfaction. All his. At least for today.

She returned a few minutes later with a collection of food so strange that he had to believe she had literally cleaned out her kitchen to find it. But she ate. Ravenously. She tore apart bread and fruit and some kind of dried fish like it was the last meal she'd ever eat, washing it down with raspberry jam and chick pea paste. It was truly disgusting to witness and he didn't care a bit.

"Wow," she said through a mouthful. "I didn't realise how hungry I was."

"You have to promise me you'll eat from now on. Look at you."

"Are you calling me gangly?"

"That's a trick question, there's no right answer. You haven't been taking care of yourself, just promise me you'll eat."

She pouted, looking away. Petulant little girl. "Fine."

They talked about nonsense while she ate, stopping to exchange grape-flavoured kisses. He found out the difference between a champion general and a lord general (nobility), how often the fashions of the court changed (every month, that's why she always wore her armour) and exactly how she felt about her new fingernails ("I can't even hold a sword!"). He watched her eat and talk, every quirk of her lips and the way her eyelashes fluttered against her skin, how her tongue darted across her lips when she started talking, how she gave an exaggerated nod when she swallowed.

Alistair could barely let her finish eating before he pulled her back to him in a tangle of arms and legs, he needed to feel her skin against his. Her stomach had rounded adorably from all the food and he laid a hand over it as he kissed down her neck, her breasts and sternum, revelling in her arms around him.

The way she pushed her hair over her shoulder, an ebony waterfall, sparked his passion anew. His touches and caresses took on a more urgent air and she reciprocated with a ferocity that blew him away. He found himself pressed back against the headboard, her hands either side of his head, keeping him in a trap he was more than happy to be caught in.

There was no violence or frenzy this time, the urgency was slow building, an undercurrent in languorous touches and hot, open kisses. She straddled him, her thighs burning a searing trail around his hips. He ran his hands up her back, holding her close and pretending her didn't feel the ridge of each rib too clearly under his fingers.

When she sunk down onto him he tightened his grip on her, trying to hold her closer. They were so tightly bound up in each other that movement was next to impossible, but neither was willing to cede an inch. She ground her hips against his in a steady, determined tempo that resonated through him.

He focussed on breathing, unable to move, and listening to her breathe. There were no other sounds in the room apart from their steadily increasing gasps, air drawn in raggedly and held unintentionally. Though not as harsh or frantic, there was somehow a deeper desperation building between them.

"Alistair," she whimpered. "Lie to me, tell me what I need to hear."

He bit down on her shoulder, eliciting a low groan. "Anything, Pup, anything for you."

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you." He met her eyes, begging her to believe him. "I've always loved you. I'll always love you."

She sobbed into the air, and her body tightened without warning. His sunshine exploded in his arms, reduced to a trembling mess. This time he followed her, muffling his cries against her chest. Slender arms wrapped around his neck and she gave a wrenching sigh.

Alistair held her, recovering in the most intimate embrace. They held each other for an age, waiting for each tremor to subside. He felt like he'd been hit about the head and thought he might never be alright to stand again. Something in him had been taken out, or maybe something had been put back after being gone for so long, but he was exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open.

She climbed off him and slid under the bedcovers, blinking drowsily. He slid down beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist. It was so natural, so familiar. He ran a hand down the back of her neck.

"What's this?" he asked. A deep scar ran from the nape of her neck down her shoulderblade.

"A hurlock attacked me," she mumbled sleepily.

"Just the one?"

"Mmm." She nuzzled his arm. "Alistair?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't want to sleep."

He remembered the bags under her eyes, the deep hollows that told him she never slept. Warm breath mingled with thick hair as he kissed the back of her neck.

"It's okay, Pup. I've got you. Sleep."

Her hand squeezed his tightly and it was only a few minutes before her breathing slowed and her shoulders relaxed. Alistair closed his eyes.

For the first time in years he slept soundly. There were no dreams, just an overwhelming warmth and comfort. He dozed, still able to feel her in his arms, the rhythm of her breathing steady against his chest. It was like being engulfed in a cloud, nothing but light and softness, a tender embrace that held him safe from the world.

He woke at grey dawn, cold light filtering through the windows. His body protested at waking, but the bed beside him was cold, and he groaned in dissatisfaction. He should have woken with her in his arms.

Sitting up, Alistair glanced around the room through groggy eyes, finding her sitting at her desk, a pale silk robe draped around her shoulders. He found his pants on the ground and pulled them on before approaching the desk.

She didn't move, didn't look up. She was just staring. Before her lay a silver blade, longer than a dagger, but not quite a sword, its hilt intricately decorated with black inlays. He rested a hand on her shoulder and a sob escaped from her lips.

"Why is it, Alistair, that every time I'm around you I do things that make me hate myself?"

His eyes were fixed on the blade. "What is that?"

"I'll give you what you came here for."

"What is that blade, Pup?" A stupid question. He already knew. It was a Dalish blade, used for ritual suicide. It was covered in dust, and somehow he could see her sitting here many early mornings, staring at it.

"You know what it is." She held up a hand and he realised she was holding something. "Take it."

A leather journal, old and well used. "What is this?"

"The reason I left Denerim, five years of research. You'll find what you want in the front."

He opened the front cover and three sheaves of paper fell into his hand, loose. They were old, at least a few years, but the writing was still legible. Letters, letters to his brother from the Empress. He scanned the first and his eyes widened.

"This is... This would humiliate Celene."

"She'd lose face, be assassinated within the month. That's the leverage you were looking for, she'll sign your treaty and never breathe a word of your Ameline to anyone." She refused to look at him, eyes fixed on her hands in her lap.

"Thank you..."

"I'm not doing this for you." She looked up. "Celene has forgotten who she's manipulating. You weren't the only victim here. The letters will buy you your treaty and after that... well, things are going to stop adding up after the fact. If you can live not knowing, burn the journal. Think carefully about how much you want to know the truth."

"Ferelden owes you a debt for this." He wished he could tell her what it meant, for her to fix this for him, when he had failed his whole country. "I owe you a debt."

"You do. Every jerk and his jerk dog comes out of the woodwork with problems for me to fix. That journal comes with a price, Alistair."

"Name it."

She stood up and he could see tears rolling down her cheeks. "Leave, and don't come back. This is the last thing you may ever ask of me."

"Pup..." She couldn't ask this. She couldn't ask him to never see her again. Maybe it would be easier, but not better. Five years had been torture, the rest of his life seemed unbearable.

"Take it or leave it." She wrapped the robe more tightly around herself and drifted past him, heading for the door. "Just take the journal and go."

Alistair watched her go. How many times could one woman break his heart? Eventually there wouldn't be anything left. He watched the door that she had disappeared through, standing there until he thought the pain might break his chest in two. He couldn't just leave. He couldn't leave her to contemplate a Dalish suicide blade in the cold mornings, couldn't leave her to starve herself to death, to be forced into servitude to Celene. He couldn't wake up alone again.

He looked down at the book in his hand, the key to Fereldan freedom.

_If you strip a dog of his meals, no matter how gentle his nature, he will eventually kill to eat._

He collected his armour, strapping on what wasn't broken, and walked away from the manor.

Celene would already be awake, and he wasn't going to wait, wasn't going to give himself a chance to run back to her. He wanted to take the journal back and throw it in her fire, to tell her that she was infinitely more important than a few scraps of paper. Alistair the man wouldn't trade her for any amount of power or wealth, Alistair the king didn't have a choice.

He didn't let himself be announced, didn't pause to think about the mess he must have looked. He opened the doors to her office, throwing himself headfirst away from all his hesitations. He refused to let himself think about the feel of his lover quivering in his arms, moaning against his mouth.

Celene was sitting at her desk, alone. Her face lit up with a twisted kind of satisfaction on seeing him and he wanted to be sick.

"I take it you have reached a decision, Alistair?" That accent, it drove him crazy. Everything she said sounded so smug.

He relaxed into one of the chairs on the other side of her desk, getting comfortable. She could be a conniving snake all she liked, this time he had the upper hand.

"It seems I am not the only one who has been indulging in extracurricular activities."

Celene's smile froze. "I can't imagine what you're talking about."

"Oh, you know. Tapping the midnight still. Forging the moaning statue. Donning the velvet hat."

"Speak the common tongue, Alistair." It was incredibly gratifying to see her calm damaged. She could beat around the bush all she liked, she was caught, and she knew it.

"You sultry minx," the king smiled at her affectionately. He tossed one of the letters onto the desk in front of her. "You were sleeping with my brother."


	7. All Warfare

**Chapter 6**

**All Warfare Is Based On, Y'know, Stuff**

–

For three months the journal sat on Alistair's desk, staring at him. Sometimes he would flick it open just to see her handwriting, snarky little notes that meant nothing to him out of context, scrawled across the borders of articles and pictures.

_Flemeth: Poss. crazy? Who researches Archdemons? How does anyone research Archdemons?_

It wasn't much, but it helped. He could almost hear her voice along with the words. He was sure it hadn't been this hard the first time around. The pain was similar, the gaping emptiness that followed him around, the occasional forgetfulness that would see him glance around, looking for her before remembering and being brought crashing back to reality. It just never had this undercurrent of unreality before. It didn't feel temporary last time, like he was just dragging out his own torture.

Ferelden was safe again, the treaty signed. Empress Celene had been extremely cooperative, and not at all grateful that Alistair hadn't pressed his advantage. He'd been hailed as a hero on his return to Denerim, and didn't dare breathe a word of what had actually happened, not even to Teagan and Zevran who already knew.

He waited for the day he knew was coming, the day he'd receive an invitation to the wedding of the Queen of Nevarra. A royal affair he'd have to attend. Every time he heard news from Orlais it filled him with dread.

She had been right, though. Things stopped adding up. Knowing that Cailan had been having an affair suddenly brought Loghain's betrayal a new light. Everyone thought he'd gone mad with power, but that wasn't in his character, he'd never grasped for the throne before, even when he had a legitimate claim to it. Had he known that his son-in-law was having such a scandalous affair with his long-time enemy?

Alistair knew where he'd find the answers, so after three interminable months he picked up the journal and opened the front cover, preparing to read the full story.

It wasn't easy, the journal had obviously never been intended for others to read, connections made without any apparent logic, maybe there was none, maybe she simply hadn't written it down. It would have been a difficult read even if he didn't have to spread its reading over the course of several more months, between his duties as king and the dense, impenetrable nature of the text.

The first third of the book was filled entirely with Grey Warden law. Conscription, apparently, from the official texts on who could be conscripted and then to individual accounts and court documents. He figured that it was a reasonable subject for her to be interested in, she was the only conscript he'd known.

The picture it painted was a very political one. Despite the Grey Wardens' power to conscript whoever they liked, whenever they liked, the consequences could be enormous, the backlash causing more damage than the recruit was worth. It seemed in that climate it was a miracle anyone was conscripted at all. Even forcing a commoner or criminal into their ranks was difficult in the long run, much less a noblewoman.

_Daveth, Denerim?_

Daveth had been there at her joining, taken from the gallows. There were no documents relating to the recruitment, there wouldn't be any for a pickpocket, but the margins were scribbled with notes.

_Denerim vault. 2 bedazzlement charms, 1 speed enchantment, 1 dexterity enhancer. Coincidence?_

Alistair nearly laughed. Coincidence? Whatever she had been thinking was not written down so he could only imagine what connected Daveth to an assortment of magical items in the Denerim vault. Maybe he had stolen them, they certainly seemed useful items for a cutpurse.

He slipped into his office late in the evenings, reading a little more each night, trying to make sense of her tenuous connections. A thousand facts that apart meant nothing, and together were slowly painting a pointless portrait. As a Grey Warden this was all very interesting, as someone who had lived through these events, he couldn't see what she was getting at.

And all throughout there were notes, totally unconnected to anything else, on Flemeth and the Archdemon.

_Shapeshifted into dragon. Has to know a dragon's soul. Kind of wish I hadn't killed her._

Kind of glad she did. Flemeth was a monster, Alistair had enough proof of that to last him a lifetime. Her continued fascination with the witch was a mystery, she'd never shown any interest in Flemeth beyond her potential to help or hinder.

It was almost two months from first reading when Alistair came across the first page that made him think that she might have been serious when she said he didn't want to know the truth. Flipping through the book his own name caught his eye, and he stared down at the page, entirely devoted to him.

_Alistair_

_8 years old – Meets Grey Wardens_

_13 years old – Eamon marries Isolde (Isolde already under false impressions? Speak with Teagan)_

_ Alistair sent to Chantry_

_19 years old – Sent to Circle for Templar training_

_24 years old – Recruited to Grey Wardens_

The notes underneath were written in a different pen, years fresher than her original timeline.

_Confirmed, no gossip in Orlais about Eamon. Where did Isolde get this information? _

_How young did he develop his character? Can a person be who they are at such a tender age? Need further confirmation._

Nice to know someone was thinking of him. A little less nice to know that someone was thinking of him, talking to someone else who was thinking of him, and not mentioning this fact.

Alistair sent for Bann Teagan, pacing in his office while he waited. For five years they had searched, sending out word to every post, anyone who could tell her location was offered a huge reward, and it had all been fruitless. The Hero of Ferelden had disappeared without a trace, leaving her country in shambles. And his uncle had just forgotten to mention that she sought him out.

When Teagan arrived, looking slightly harassed from a long day, the king didn't speak at first, unable to find the right words.

"Sire? Did you need something?"

"Yes." He nodded, frowning. "I need to know... Why didn't you tell me you'd seen her?"

Teagan looked genuinely perplexed. "Sire?"

"The Queen of Nevarra. Teyrna Cousland. She sought you out four years ago and you somehow forgot to tell me. It seems like a curious oversight."

The Bann's face lost a few shades of colour. He sat at Alistair's desk with a heavy sigh. "She swore me to secrecy, said that she wouldn't meet with me if I didn't make an oath not to tell anyone, especially you. I wanted to make sure that she was well, and she didn't ask anything of me to compromise my loyalty."

Ah, of course. Alistair had forgotten about his little crush. For a fierce warrior she certainly had her share of male admirers.

"And what did she ask of you?"

"I..." The Bann hesitated, as if he was considering refusing to say. "She wanted to know about Isolde. When she came to Redcliffe, how long Eamon courted her, when she started thinking that you..."

"She thought I was Eamon's son, you can say it."

"Yes. And she wanted to know what you were like as a young boy. I couldn't get her to say the purpose to her questions, she insisted that it was better that no one else knew her purpose, in case her theory proved true. The information seemed harmless enough."

Alistair thought about being angry with Teagan, but that would have been hypocrisy. A flutter of her eyelashes and a toss of her hair and she'd laid him out flat when an entire country was depending on him, he could hardly blame another man for answering a few questions about his sister-in-law.

"Just... don't do it again."

Teagan bowed an walked away, looking relieved.

Great, he was trying to run a country and warmongering, traumatised Orlesian queen had half his staff wrapped around her little finger. Including him. Things like this always ended so well.

"Sire..." Teagan paused in the doorway. "She did not swear me to secrecy before telling me... how it pleased her that she was well liked by your family. I thought you might want to know."

The emptiness inside him suddenly flared painfully. "Thank you, Teagan."

Well liked by his family, and she was at that. The kind of family, had they been allowed to marry, that would have been hers as well. He couldn't pretend that it didn't bring him both pleasure and pain that her brother was always kind to him, there was more than one night he'd found himself exchanging war stories with Fergus, trying to forget who he shared blood with and at the same time knowing they were but a few stupid words short of being brothers.

Brothers, what a strange word. He had a brother, but that had never meant anything to him. And his sister had been the greatest disappointment. The idea of having a family, a real family that loved him, a wife, a child, a brother, it was too painful to even contemplate.

He opened the book again, pushing the thoughts out of his head.

Isolde was the one who had him sent to the chantry. Was the queen really thinking that the Grey Wardens influenced her? It was outrageous, completely absurd. Why would she even think that? The Grey Wardens had taken him in and given him a home when he had none, Isolde... made sure of that. The idea of conscription was laughable, when he was offered a place in the Grey Wardens he practically performed a victory dance in the hall.

No, no, he wasn't thinking this. If they'd wanted him that badly, all they had to do was conscript him. For all anyone knew he was just the bastard son of a servant, there wouldn't have been any political backlash, there was no need for subterfuge or trickery. No need to whisper in Isolde's ear.

But a treacherous voice at the back of his mind told him that wasn't quite true. Eamon knew, so did Duncan.

_How does the Taint leave an Archdemon's body? Does the blood mingle, or is it more spiritual? When the Taint goes elsewhere, how does it get there?_

He buried himself in the journal for the next few days, neglecting his work. The idea had been planted in his head, and now he needed to confirm or reject it. Duncan was the closest thing to a father he'd known, he wouldn't have manipulated the system just for a new recruit. In fact Duncan had been kind to all his recruits, more often than not a saviour to them, allowing people in the most desperate situations the chance to be part of the Grey Wardens.

Like Daveth.

Daveth would have been hanged for theft if Duncan hadn't been there, it was the least anyone could do to give him the chance to fight the Darkspawn instead of swinging. It was Duncan's own purse that he had tried to cut, a foolish thing to do from the start. Why would anyone try to steal from a man as heavily armed as the Warden Commander?

A chill ran down Alistair's spine. He flicked back in the journal, looking for a previous entry.

A Warden Commander who had just relieved the vault of a number of bedazzlement charms and enhancements fit to catch a pickpocket. He shook his head. No. Impossible. Even if the political situation was that dire, they wouldn't... they couldn't...

The next entries dissolved into poor sense, a timeline working backward, all without conclusion. Alistair's name, and Daveth's, appeared more and more frequently. This wasn't their story, though. Dozens of pages, hastily scribbled, punctuated with reports from the events, were her story.

_Loghain executed._

_Loghain attempts to gain control of the Landsmeet._

_Howe executed._

_Howe becomes Arl of Denerim._

_Loghain deserts at Ostagar._

_Howe takes Highever._

_Loghain and Howe ally forces._

_Missing information._

_Loghain discovered Cailan's affair._

_Loghain peaceable, submits to Cailan at Landsmeet. Shows no sign of ambition for the throne._

_Cailan and Anora marry._

_Cailan crowned._

Missing information. She could say that again. The backwards ascent of Loghain from monstrous traitor to loyal servant of the crown, happily giving his daughter to the new king was baffling in a way he hadn't realised before. There had always been speculation on why Loghain betrayed them, and Cailan's affair did seem to fit into that, but it couldn't have been all that was at work.

But this was only half Loghain's story, the other half were details that he had never known about a woman he thought he knew better than himself.

_Conscripted._

_Attacked by Howe._

_Howe increases relations with Highever._

_Howe begins to believe that Couslands are in league with Orlais._

_Tournament._

Tournament. No further explanation. Not a single word to link the tournament to Howe's betrayal. Just one word. This had haunted her, Zevran had told him how she used to murmur about it when no other sound would escape her lips. He searched the journal, searching for an explanation. The word was repeated, over and over, with no connection to anything else.

He came upon a single page, blank except for a scribble in the upper corner and a blossoming blood stain.

_The hell? Hurlock snuck up on me. Can they do that?_

No mention of the tournament. Luckily he wasn't completely flying blind. He was the king after all. After so long shut up in his office he returned to his duties and sent for every record of a tournament in Highever in her lifespan.

The documents flooded in over days, stacked away in a corner where he could sort through them in the evenings. It seemed the Teyrnir of Highever liked their competitions, because there were plenty of them. He tried to narrow them down to her skill sets. Duels, strategic competitions and provings were all set aside, but it still took him nearly a week to find what he was looking for.

Less than a year before her conscription, the youngest daughter of Bryce Cousland brought honour to her family by winning the duelling tournament to celebrate some anniversary of Cailan's coronation. She respectfully declined the prize of a place among Cailan's bodyguards, citing duty to her family.

_The final match was attended by Warden Commander Duncan of the Grey Wardens._

The world spun before Alistair's eyes as he read the final sentence.

_Missing information._

Someone had told Howe that the Couslands were in league with Orlais, someone respectable. Someone who might not have known that Howe's close acquaintance, Loghain, already had reason to believe that the Fereldan throne was under threat from his oldest enemy. Someone who needed the Couslands out of the way, breaking the ties that kept a great warrior from leaving her home and pursuing higher goals.

No. No, no, no. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be true. Duncan wasn't a traitor, he wouldn't have done that. He had foresight, he couldn't have inadvertently set off the series of events that led to his own death, the events that had threatened the country with civil war.

"Sire?"

The door creaked open.

"Zevran, have the horses prepared."

"Pardon?"

Alistair picked up the journal and papers and headed for the door. If she thought she could just turn his life upside down and never hear from him again, she had another thing coming. This journal held accusations toward people of the highest honour. Either she was completely right and had kept this from him, or she was smearing the name of the Grey Wardens.

"We're going to Nevarra."

"I don't think that's such a good idea, sire."

Alistair turned around. "Why not?"

The elf looked conflicted, frowning deeply. "Because she's not in Nevarra."

"Val Royeaux, then. The Anderfels. Wherever she is, we need to be there, just tell me where we're going."

"Alistair, you are my friend, my king, and most importantly, my employer. There is no soul I have greater loyalty to. But that does not mean I agree with every decision you have made."

"Are you refusing to tell me where she is?" He didn't have the time or the patience for this, not right now.

"To what end? Twice now you have left her devastated when you should have married her, I was witness to the first and I cannot imagine the second. She spared my life, gave me a chance to redeem myself, I cannot throw caution to the wind and hope she survives a third time."

"You know I would have married her if I could."

"Could is such a relative concept. You are both adults, both royals, and if I perceive correctly, both in love. There is nothing preventing such a union."

Alistair rounded on his spymaster, furious. He had tortured himself over this enough to last a lifetime, he didn't need everyone else throwing in their two cents as well. "Have you ever seen a broodmother, Zevran? Have you ever seen a woman who is transitioning into one? The look in their eyes, knowing that soon they will be nothing but a vessel to birth Darkspawn? And even if she avoided that fate, no one knows what two Grey Wardens would produce, with that much tainted blood. If she birthed a hurlock, would you be the one to kill it? To help her recover from that?"

Zevran held up his hands in defeat. "Then issue the order, but remember that it was an order."

"It is. Tell me where she is."

"Visiting her brother in Highever."

Alistair turned away from him, storming down the hall toward the stables. "Have the horses prepared."

"Yes, sire."

Zevran was right, to some degree. This would hurt them both. But he wasn't about to let her land all this knowledge on him without an explanation. Duncan was the only one he truly trusted, if that trust hadn't been earned, then he wanted to hear it from her.

Two days ride to Highever.

He was getting his answers.

–

Highever was bustling. The Queen of Nevarra was in the building, and there was no mistaking that. Her banners flew from each turret alongside the Cousland crest. Women with thickly lined eyes and men in red cloaks, her retinue, bustled about from every direction, red flowers among the grey stone.

Alistair was met at the gates by Buttercup, bounding ahead of Fergus. The Mabari flung himself at the king's feet with unrestrained joy, rolling around until he received a grudging scratch of his belly.

"You can just ignore him, my lord," Fergus greeted with a laugh and held out his hand for the king to shake. "You'll forgive me for not raising your banner, you gave us so little notice of your arrival and it's getting a little crowded up there. Two royals in Highever at once, father would never have imagined."

Alistair took his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. "Of course. We won't impose on you long, I'm sure you know why I'm here."

"Yes, my little sister. Here we thought she'd join the army or marry some no name lord, and she ends up the Queen of all Nevarra. Never ceases to amaze me. I'm sure she meant no offence by not visiting Denerim, she's in no state to travel as it is."

Fergus led the way back through Highever, passing the exotic Nevarres as they walked. Dark butterfly eyes flicked their way, indifference and contempt radiating from the fluttering foreigners. Buttercup followed at his heels.

"You must be proud of her."

"Proud isn't enough to describe it. I know it's an Orlesian territory, but knowing her she'll have declared independence soon and conquer Val Royeaux while Empress Celene isn't looking."

Alistair had to agree with that assessment. She seemed loyal enough to Celene, but every time he thought he knew what to expect from her, she changed the rules. Still, he'd believe it when he saw it, until then she was an Orlesian.

"Pup, you have a visitor."

Fergus pushed open the doors to his office. Alistair let out a huff. Every single time. Grey butterflies rose up toward them, diamonds resting on her eyelashes like dewdrops. Rubies glinted in her ears and nose, a single gold stud under her painted red lips. Lacquered nails, painted in black wildflowers, clicked against the desk. She wasn't wearing her armour, instead a flowing gown of red and black, her dark hair pulled tight behind her head, letting her coronet rest easily.

"King Alistair."

"Queen Cousland."

"Forgive me for not standing. I take it this visit means you have read the documents I gave you."

"I'll just... uh... leave you two alone." Fergus disappeared out the door as the atmosphere headed for decidedly awkward.

"I told you never to ask me for anything again. That was our deal."

"You knew as soon as you gave me this that wasn't going to happen." He tossed the journal down in front of her. "How could you insinuate those things about Duncan?"

She shrugged. "I postulated nothing, simply wrote down facts and examined how they came together. Duncan damned himself by deed."

Alistair ran a hand through his hair, tugging at a few strands just to feel the pain, distract himself from what was going on. "When did you start to suspect?"

"Ostagar. You and Daveth both told me Duncan had rescued you. Since I had also been 'rescued', I couldn't help but feel there was more at work. I didn't know the scope of it."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She gave him a withering glare. "Alistair, we have known each other for five years, been friends, comrades and lovers, and presented with this theory you are about ready to tear me limb from limb. How would you have felt if I had told you back at Ostagar?"

"I see your point, but... Duncan..."

"Did what he needed to. For what its worth I still think him a good man."

"A good man?" Alistair slammed his open hand down on the desk, making her jump. "He was a murderer! He murdered your family! He had me sent to the chantry, away from the only home I'd ever known... He... He was a monster."

Her face remained impassive, like he was talking about someone neither of them knew. "You've forgiven me worse sins. He had no idea that Loghain would become involved, and I'm sure that if he had known about Cailan's affair he would have tried to recruit me voluntarily."

The king squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't know what he wanted her to say. The journal was no joke, he'd known that. Maybe he was hoping she'd say she'd found out more, that she had it all wrong in the first place. Duncan had been the kindest man he'd ever known, he'd idolised him since the day they met. He was the father he never had. And he was... what?

He was a Warden. He hadn't known Duncan more than year personally, and only a few weeks of the Blight. The Blight had destroyed his lover, tried to take her from him. Maybe he was just being naïve, maybe he hadn't considered just how dark the war against Darkspawn could get.

A pair of soft hands closed over his shoulders and he pulled her to him, burying his face in her neck. He couldn't handle this alone. His whole life had been a lie, he was just a pawn in the machinations of a larger organisation.

"It's going to be alright," she murmured in his ear, resting her cheek against his.

He held her tightly, wishing the world away. She was so warm and soft in his arms. Soft. She'd put on some weight, just like he'd asked her to. But somehow it didn't feel right, their bodies weren't fitting to each other like they normally did.

He raised his head and pulled her back a little, trying to get a look at her.

"Alistair..." she started.

"You're..." He reached out and lay a hand on her rounded belly. She was pregnant. "Does Cedric..."

"Know? Yes. He hasn't claimed the child and I haven't asked him to. The mages tell me it's a boy."

"He's just... abandoned you?" He knew he should have dealt with Cedric while he had the chance. No one, _no one_ did that to his Pup. Left her hanging, ineligible, because he couldn't take responsibility for his children. Just like Alistair's own mother had been left.

But she wasn't angry, in fact she laughed, a smile lighting her face. "After all you've been through this year you want me to trap him into marriage? No, that's not me. Eventually the boy will be old enough to be claimed without him needing to take me with it, and I'm happy with that."

Alistair looked into her eyes, overcome with sudden gravity. She was pregnant with a clean, healthy boy. Pregnant and unattached. Queen of Nevarra, no one could possibly object. His mouth was dry.

"I know I promised I'd never ask anything again, but I think I have to break that promise."

She rolled her eyes. "What is it, Alistair?"

"Let me claim the child." His heart thundered in his ears. "Marry me."

She froze. "What? I can't even... Be serious, Alistair."

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. Their eyes met and he tried to convey with his lips and eyes just how serious he was being. This could be it. He couldn't screw this up. This could be the day he got what he always wanted.

"Marry me."

"This is crazy."

"I don't care."

"You'd really put someone else's son on your throne if it meant we could marry?" She asked incredulously. "Isn't this a little..."

"Inconvenient? No."

"You're so... infuriating!" She pulled out of his arms and started pacing. "You... you told me we couldn't be together! That was you, all you. I never got a say in it. And now you want to marry me?"

"I was wrong. I always wanted you to be my wife."

"Is this really what you want, Alistair? What if I lose the child, or he dies before producing another heir?"

"Then Connor is growing up, he'll make a fine king."

She stopped pacing and looked at him. His heart swelled. He had her. Shaking hands brushed hair out of her face, she closed her eyes for a moment. "Did you read my other research, on the Darkspawn?"

The change of topic nearly gave him whiplash. Was she just avoiding the subject?

"I couldn't make any sense of it."

"No, I guess I didn't write too much down. I went to Val Royeaux looking for Flemeth's Grimoire. Things had... changed... about me."

"What are you talking about?"

She laughed, incredulous. "I was attacked and nearly killed by a hurlock. I didn't sense it. And I looked for more, I couldn't sense any Darkspawn anymore."

"I don't understand."

"When I killed the Archdemon... well I can't say much about what happened, I never got the answers I was looking for. But whatever happened on that tower... when the Archdemon's soul was purified, its Taint destroyed... well... so was mine."

"I'm sorry, are you telling me... that you're no longer a Grey Warden?"

She nodded. "I never slept with Cedric, Alistair. The child is yours. And yes, I'll marry you."

Time slowed, letting the words hang in the air between them. Then she was in his arms. He lifted her off the ground, spinning her in the air.

A husband, a father. With her. The only woman he'd ever wanted.

He had a family. Wife, child, brother, all. Denerim, Nevarra City and Highever all were his home.

"You do realise what this means, don't you?" she asked.

"That I finally get to tell you I love you again?"

"Only the Maker may compel me otherwise, and the Maker is in the Chantry, His emissaries," she recited from the Oath of Orlais. "The chantry tells me that holy matrimony is the highest bond. My husband is my first duty, before the Empire."

Alistair hadn't thought of that. Nevarra would become, for all intents and purposes, part of Ferelden. Even if it still answered to Orlais, the first authority would lie with them.

He grinned and kissed his fiancee, wrapping his hands through her hair and pulling her in to him. She wrapped her arms around him and they chuckled into each others' mouths. He pulled her legs out from under her, picking her up bridal style despite her squeal of protest. He had a brother-in-law to inform of their important news.

Nevarra and Ferelden together.

Alistair laughed into her hair.

"Celene is going to have kittens."


End file.
